Necromancer/Corpsebearer but wild and animal like. Feral and “corrected” to the Bishop’s liking. Once the leader of the Banditos who vanished over a month ago on what should’ve been a simple raid for food. Now sneaking around the greenery of Trench, with one mission. Find Clancy. Shaped and molded by Dema as a spy, a collector. Muzzled and caged when not on a hunt. Typically he is ruthless, ends a fight before it’s even begun. His red eyes glowing ominously in the darkness, his mask tight around his neck, discomfort to keep him moving. He comes across another masked being in the woods, hunched over and studying prints on the ground, hoping to find any sign of life. The scent radiating from the being matching the very one he is looking for.
Clancy.
Clancy isn’t oblivious though, he could sense it from miles away, on edge of what the Bishops could or would send his way. Corpse is quick to pounce, tumbling them both to the ground in a flurry of gnashing teeth and scraping claws. Clancy uses all his strength to pin him down, arms above his head as he snarls. Ripping the burlap-like mask off to find a familiar face.
“T-torch?”
His blood runs cold, as the man below him snaps at him with pointed teeth. What they’ve done to the man he loves. He grabs the matted curls, and pulls his head back aggressively. Their eyes meet. The captured man pants, adrenaline in overdrive, but curiosity… a jolt of realization of who he was. Only for a split moment.
“Clancy… I can’t hold it off for long… I-I’m sorry. Break the cycle”
Torch and Clancy are out on patrol in the woods, Clancy in his kitty coded mood. In the trees jumping limb from limb. Torch down on the ground, flame in hand, a soft smile as Clancy is moving freely, a bird free from its cage.
Clancy jumps to a low limb right in front of him, and then hangs upside down stopping him in his tracks, only his eyes visible under the mask.
Torch spiking the light in the ground a safe distance away, coming back to the man, whose chest is heaving in the adrenaline of freedom. Torch tilts his head, a hand coming to the others clothed cheek, looking into his doe eyes. Then slowly, tenderly, pulling the mask down over his chin, then lips, and a little off his nose. Leaning in to give a gentle kiss.
Clancy’s cheeks heating up immediately but kissing back. Just a quiet moment between the two before the agile man comes back to the ground. Torch picking back up the light to continue in their comfortable silence. Hand in hand.
What if the “end” of the lore is still a projection. That whatever Clancy was seeing in The Contract was still a continuation, we know that he will “wake up” at times and still be in a trance created by the Bishops. That the true ending is Torch went to that Tower himself and never truly left Dema. He went to the Tower himself to end the cycle. Alone. And Clancy now is such grief and denial as he feels it’s his fault, and maybe it is, but in the end Torchbearer made the choice to end the regime of the Bishops because he knew what would befall Clancy and he could not fathom the loss of this Clancy, his Clancy. He would rather it be him dying so that his Clancy would finally be free and have the chance to live. Because the love he has for that lost soul is so deep, he would rather it be his soul on the line.
Clancy will get distracted by Torch doing mundane things. Like helping wash camp dishes. The way his biceps flex, his comfortable demeanor as he hands a dish over for someone to dry. Or building a new shelter, a more permanent one, his back rippling as he holds a wood plank over his shoulder, the sweat dripping down his back. His energy never wavering, until it’s finished. What usually takes him over the edge is when he is playful with the children of Trench. That pointed perfect smiled and carefree laugh as he runs and picks up a child, spinning them around. It seizes Clancy’s heart. Visions of a small cabin on the edge of the woods, next to a grassy field taunt him. It’s Torchbearer and his shared home. Making meals together, folding laundry side by side, late nights tracing the colors on his skin. It’s playing outside in the field, Torch’s strong arms carrying their child, somehow, a spitting image of them both. Torch gentle and kind, teaching their baby the way of living with nature.
Some days it’s too much for Clancy, his mind taunting him into such a spiral he lashes out to everyone and everything. He will get himself lost in the thick brush, his chest aching with everything that could be if he was just strong enough. Strong enough to say something, strong enough to fight the darkness within himself. Or at least come to an understanding.
But that’s what it all is. Clancy being weak, plunged so far down he can’t claw his way out. The only relief being his dreams, that in turn become nightmares once again. Everything that could be, but will never become. At least not in this lifetime.
It’s after the war, everything is better than anyone could’ve ever expected. Rebuilding. Founding. Enjoying and experiencing new things without fear. Freedom. Torch and Clancy found their new roles, finally confessing what they truly mean to each other. Enjoying early sunrises, hardworking days making choices that benefit the community, late nights with deep belly laughter and camaraderie. A warm, sunny day, that cold feeling washes through Clancy again. Stealing his breathing, making him grasp at his chest. But there’s no bishops, no more rituals, the Glorious Gone now at peace. No reason to have that pit opening and swallowing him from the inside out. And yet, there it is creeping up his spine, digging its way through his heart and throat. Maybe they had it all wrong, it wasn’t the Bishops, maybe it was him the whole time. A cycle with no end. A fleeting happy moment rather than an end… Until a catalyst sends the next cycle in overdrive. He’s spacey, Torch notices, Clancy physically next to him but his eyes a tell, he might as well be a million miles away. But he takes Torch’s hand, blinking back to this moment and smiles. Knowing what will probably come. Choosing just to be, in the meantime.
Torch coming home. Alone. This time vastly different from the last. He’s begun to unravel, the flame flickering, threatening to be snuffed out. The walk back, was like a dream, a nightmare actually, one moment he was faced with that look Clancy left him with, his eyes forgetting entirely who he was in that moment. Now, he sits in their tent alone, in the dark. His eyes glassy and chest cold and empty. He’s sat on his cot, legs spread and arms on his thighs with limp hands. Just blinking into the darkness.
Torch is not a violent man but something in him snaps. He begins to tear down every note Clancy wrote him, with I love yous and sweet words, all lies to him now. Tearing apart their photographs. Crushing dried petals he gifted him. The deep setting sorrow overtakes him, he flips furniture and screams while destroying everything they had built together. It was betrayal in the highest form. Darkness licks up his spine and thoughts threatening to consume. His mind was breaking, he was tired of being strong, tired of being the Torchbearer. Always the strongest, the chosen one. But never the one to truly be chosen, they always left him in the end. They always chose themselves. So why couldn’t he as well? Always one for the people, for Clancy. He would be lying if he said he never considered it. But his heart was too pure, his intentions and moral compass like iron.
He sits, chest heaving, in the middle of his own destruction. The floor littered with scraps of his favorite lifetime. His tear stained face hushing once again as he lays down among the memories he so desperately wanted to keep. But as the times before, he will push on through come morning.
Torch decides he cannot live without his Clancy. No matter the cost.
This is my first spicy work, just to warn you. I apologize for any inconsistencies or OOC moments. I tried to stay as true as possible.
I do not own any rights to anything related to twentyonepilots or their lore of Trench. I do not consent of my works being used in any forms of AI. Thank you and Power to the Local Dreamer |-/ Copyright @onlybonesremain
Torchbearer stood silently at the base of the tall ominous tower, soaked down to his core in the frigid rain. The very same tower that a mere months ago began to haunt every fiber of his being. He can still remember the stickiness of his sweat, beading down his back after his tireless trek to the peak. The moment Clancy won the battle against Nico but lost his soul in the process. The night Torch’s heart darkened, the final ember snuffed out in the ever glowing flame within him. The very night Nova Bishop was born, like a phoenix out of the ashes, bathed red.
He didn’t make this decision lightly, constant agonizing nights tossing and turning, alone in their shared tent. Reliving the moments spent together, hourless nights around the campfire sharing their sorrows, their plans for the future after the war. The sleepless nights, limbs entangled in their passion, devotion to each other. Hushed kisses and soft whispers, fingers running along inked skin.
It became a shrine of what once was and what was never to be again, the pain of which Torch could no longer bear.
Torch didn’t leave the Banditos high and dry, no his conscience wouldn’t dare let him. So quietly and inconspicuously he set a new chain of command. He was diligent in writing plans and stations to give them all the greatest chance of survival, giving hope in the next phase of what was to come. Other than that, he left without goodbye, no strings to keep him stagnant there.
So here he stood in the darkness, no longer in his familiar earth tones, but clad in complete black; blending in with the scenery around him. The only traces of color being the yellow flowers he clutched tightly to his chest, a nostalgic sentiment, maybe, but a final physical tether to the life he was leaving.
It was strange though, a neon light flickered in the window where he knew to be the Bishop’s room, yet there were no guards or citizens to be found. Especially since he was now the leading figure of power in the Council. Perhaps he just came at the right time of the evening, or there was a late mass being held, not uncommon but strange to Torch nonetheless.
Torch turned, finding the trapdoor to the once secret passage of tunnels that descended down, connecting to the base of a long flight of stairs leading to the room he desired. He made his way to the stairs, then began the ascend, his footsteps feeling weighted. It felt as if he was wearing a pair of lead boots that seemed to grow heavier with every step. Closer and closer, yet he felt as if he was sinking. But his mind was clear with one intention.
He comes to the large wooden door, that harsh light cascading out the bottom reaching the tips of his shoes. Breath in. Breath out. The point of no return. No going back. Before he could even place a hand on the door knob, the door rushed open. Inside the once empty stone room was now adorned with a large crimson framed bed, covered in onyx silken bedding. Parchments with drawings and notes hung tactfully on the walls in between the cylindrical neon lights. In front of him against the window, stood a large desk, much different than the makeshift one back at camp that was made of wooden crates and a board. Seated at the desk was none other than the Bishop himself, Nova, sat in a scarlett chair that was almost swallowed by the robe matching in color. Nova sat with his back straight, scrawling words on parchment, a neon lamp lit in front of him.
Torch takes in a shaking breath, wetting his trembling lips with his tongue. Nova’s hand stilling on the parchment.
“Come to finish me…” he muses.
Nova rises, pushing the chair back and turning to his former lover. He waves his hand as the door slams shut.
The breath is knocked from Torch. Standing in front of him, in his new powerful form, is his Clancy. Draped in that damned robe, his once olive skin now alabaster and his mousey hair grown into a tousled mess. From his lower lip down was marked in obsidian, halving him. His eyes, no longer the once honeyed brown Torch memorized, but now blood-red.
His eyes take in Torch with a soulless gaze.
“Or are you going to try and convince me to return, back to everyone I’ve betrayed”
A twinge of hurt lilting his voice.
Torch makes his way to the sullen man, walking with purpose a surge of confidence running down his spine. The petals falling behind him with each step like a veil, his fist all but disintegrating them. He aggressively grabs the collar of the robe and pulls him in tight, crooked nose brushing against fair skin. His lips ghosting over Nova’s.
“I can’t take one more day. One more day away from you. One more day in that tent, our tent. Without you. I don’t care, I surrender. Take me. Take my life, take my soul.”
Torch drops to his knees, a man broken, looking up through his lashes. His eyes bore into surprised crimson ones, a darkened hand reaching to caress his cheek with the back of his hand. He nuzzles into the warm gesture as his mind quiets, the storm raging inside dying down into a gentle breeze. Nova’s breath catches, his brows furrowing.
Truth be told, Nova’s heart was broken too. He figured the next time Torch came to see him, it would be to kill him. With the new Clancy. The thought of that haunted him every night. He would toss and turn, visions of his final breath at the hand of the only person he ever truly loved. His last moment, staring into those warm eyes. Honestly, it was the only way he would want to die. He never planned on taking the robe, becoming the new bishop. He knew what Torch would say, what his answer would be if he asked. Yet still, he turned and offered him a robe, unable to meet his eyes.
The pain of him turning, leaving. Just as everyone before him had, struck a nerve deep in his chest. Becoming a Bishop wasn’t like he had thought. He still felt. Ached. More so than before. He figured it would just be numb, more dull. Instead it was a constant reminder of everything he lost, what he turned his back on. Trench, the Banditos… Torch. It plagued him. All he ever wanted was for Torch to stay.
He cups Torchbearer’s cheek, eyes holding steady.
“There is no going back… you know that right? You stay here, with me, until the end of our days. In these walls, with no escape.”
Torch nods. “I didn’t come here with the intention of leaving you. Ever again.” He spills with conviction. Nova’s heart skips a beat. His breath quickened. He leans down to press a deep kiss to his lips, intense and hungry. He moaned breathlessly, missing those soft plush lips against his own. Torch kisses back just as hungrily, standing to wrap him in his arms. Nova holds his face between his palms, their kisses aflame and hurried. Torch runs his hands down to the small of Nova’s back, over the curve of his ass, pulling him close. Both men feeling the heat of arousal in the movement, grinding at each other for friction, closeness, all of the above.
The sounds of lips and soft moans fill the room, hands roaming impatiently, Nova quickly pulling the black cardigan over Torch’s head, revealing his tanned and taught muscles. He runs his hands down the expanse of flesh, thumbing over his nipples, eliciting the response he craved. A low groan rumbling in his chest, Torch unlaces the scarlett robed, slowly pulling the fabric down over his pale smooth skin.
The robe falls from Nova’s shoulders and pools at his feet, leaving him bare, dark veins of power rippling over his skin. He looks much bigger than before, bolder, stronger, in all ways, his erection firm and demanding attention. The image of the High Council bishop sends a shock of arousal straight to Torch’s cock, the fabric of his trousers tenting as it strains. A small smirk reaches Nova’s lips as a switch flips in mind demeanor, “There’s some…perks to the change. Power, strength…among other things. Remove your pants, Torchbearer” He demands. Torch is quick to unbuckle his pants, letting them fall around his ankles, kicking them behind him. Nova turns, scraping his chair to meet the back of his knees. He sits, legs spread, and cock resting against his stomach, taking it in his hand and slowly pumping it.
“Kneel”
Nova reaches out, wrapping his hand around Torch’s neck, lowering him to his knees, keeping their eyes steady. He leans down pressing a searing kiss to his lips; Deep and rough. Pulling back, a smirk graces his face once again, his sharp canine glinting in the dim light.
Dark fingerprints stain Torchbearer's neck and a power surges through him like a thunderbolt cracking into the earth. Even with such a great power running through him, the sensation of the Nova’s ghost prints tighten causing him to gasp.
“Now worship your Bishop”
A heat spreads throughout his body, searing into his skin, sinking through his blood and into his bones. Desire. A deep seeded need touch, to please his Bishop. Goosebumps break out along his body, a familiar warm pull in his lower abdomen. The pressure on his neck subsides as his hands make their way to the tops of Nova’s thighs,snaking their way to grip his hips as he whines.
Torch leans in, taking his member into his mouth, moaning softly as he takes it down to the hilt. His crooked nose nestled into the dark thatch of hair, his scent familiar, yet, sharper. He missed this, his lips around Clan- Nova’s cock, his own straining against nothing, begging to be touched already.
He bobs his head, sucking slowly, languid. Up and down. Nova tips his head back, mouth open and grunts, taking a darkened hand to the mess of curls on Torch’s head. He grips, pulling his head back, looking down his nose, locking onto his warm eyes as he pushes him back down. Tears form, catching his lashes, a slight gag at the swift moment back down. Torch hums with a moan getting lost in the sensation, sending vibrations down Nova’s length. He comes back to the tip, licking gently, wrapping his hands on the shaft, pumping a few times before taking him fully once more. He hollows his cheeks, taking his entire length over and over, Nova now panting and keeping a steady hand on the back of his head. His breathing erratic and hips beginning to tense, Nova bucks his hips as he cums in Torch’s mouth, hot and heavy.
“Swallow”
Torch obeys, taking his lips off of his cock with a soft pop, as Nova tugs his head back aggressively. His crimson eyes boring into his, as he stands pushing the chair back. “Stay” he demands. Torch sits back on his legs, his cock pink and aching for any attention, his hands moving to grasp it, letting out a shaky breath. Nova grabs his wrist, warning him silently with his eyes, Torch doe eyed and cheeks turning pink from embarrassment and arousal.. The bishop lets go of his hand, turning to his desk and rummaging around underneath and pulling out a small stool. He then goes to the desktop, taking his ink pot, the size of a bowl, setting it down onto the stool.
He takes both hands and dips them into the inky void, coating them thick, bringing them up in front of his face. The onyx liquid drips down his arms leaving a trail as he comes back to face Torch. The bishop wipes his hands cleanly on the kneeling man’s neck, the dark stain coming to life, wrapping itself around his neck, and creeping down his shoulders to his muscular chest.
“No longer Torchbearer, leader of the Banditos, you are new. Not a bishop. Not a citizen. My Paladin. My Corpsebearer”
Torchbearer's warm eyes burn crimson red, the very same as Nova Bishop. The tan in his skin drained to the same pale lifeless complexion, his hair stained with the color of Dema. He moves to caress his thumb along his jaw, the other man trembling as adrenaline spikes through his body. Torch, now Corpse, looks up at him through his lash’s, their eyes locking, as Nova marks his lower lip with the cool liquid, dragging down at the corner of his lips to meet his chin, then neck. He blinks slowly, his vision shifting, shades of red becoming brighter and lines becoming crisper.
“My Bishop…” he pleads. Nova looks down his nose at the man, his thumb now running along his lower lip, then gripping at his jaw. The bishop stands, leading the man by his chin to crawl to the edge of the bed. Corpse breathes shakily as the man pulls him up from the ground, sitting him on the bed and straddling the muscular man.
“The power feels good, doesn’t it, my Paladin?”
Nova grips his jaw once again to kiss him with hunger, starved without him for all these months, so much about himself changing except for the ache of his lover. It was like a force that transcended all laws and logic, that didn’t care about Dema, the Banditos, or Trench. It didn’t care about sides, wrong or right. It was a force that couldn’t keep the two away from each other, always connected, forever intertwined.
His free hand slides down Corpse’s firm chest, thumbing his nipple slowly once again, the other sighing out between kisses in pleasure. Drips of dark paint contrasting down the planes of his pecks. Corpse’s large hands run up Nova’s back and reach to grip his tousled hair, tipping his head back to run kisses down his chin and over the expanse of his neck. Nipping at his jugular and across his shoulder, he slowly thrusts his hips up, his breath catching as their erections brush. Nova groans low as his hand makes its way down, encircling Corpse’s red leaking cock, pumping him slowly.
Corpse trails his tongue over the others fair skin, reaching his lips once more, catching his darkened lower lip in his teeth, pulling with a harsh movement as he bucks into his hand impatiently. Desperate for friction as Nova strokes him with long languid strokes, the bishop tsking his tongue.
Corpse holds Nova’s head back firmly, his eyes darkening. “I need to feel you, fuck, no more waiting.” He chokes slightly at the sudden change in the man, his stomach flipping, spitting down onto his hand and coating Corpse in a thick layer. Corpse growls, his hand moving to shove two fingers into the other's mouth “Get them nice and wet.” Nova does as he’s told, salvia trailing down his lips. Once Corpse felt it was sufficient, he moved to spread the bishop’s asscheeks, sliding his finger into the taught ring of muscle. He gasps at the sudden pressure invading, pleasure bleeding its way in as Corpse slowly fingers him. “Fuck…” he moans, moving his hips as Corpse spreads him open. He’s quick to decide he’s ready, coating Corpse’s cock once more before lowering himself down onto his girth. Both men let out a guttural moan, the sensation of each other’s bodies meeting again. Corpse moves his hips at a slow pace, enraptured in the scene in front of him.
Nova’s head was leaned back and eyes closed, his hands gripping at Corpse’s knees, cock up against his stomach. He rolls his hips to meet the hilt to the plush of his ass, bottoming out, his pleasured moan echoing the room.
“My powerful bishop, taking my cock so well”
He nods, no words escaping his throat.
“Touch yourself, I want to see you fall apart, see how much you missed me” Corpse whispers, his lips close to the shell of his ear, biting gently at the lobe. Nova grasps at his cock, circling his thumb at the tip, his pre cum giving a little slip as his hand runs up and down his length. It’s not long before he speeds his pace and Corpse’s thrusts become sporadic.
The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, moans becoming more frequent and louder.
Maybe they had been away from each other too long, or maybe it was the new found power coursing through him, but Corpse’s hips began to stutter in pace, close. It didn’t matter much though, Nova was right behind him, the tightness building up, his strokes becoming reckless.
Corpse snaps his hips, rolling them in short succession as he lets out a growling moan.
“Clancy!” he gasps as he cums, spilling into him
“Torch…” Clancy moans a moment later, finishing over his chest, hot on his skin.
His hips bouncing one, two more times, both hissing in slight overstimulation as he rolls off to lay next to him.
They both breath raggedly, the curly haired man wrapping his arms around the other. He rubs a hand up and down his back comforting him. Quiet settles over them as their breathing and heart beats sync.
“You can still call me that… when it's just us” his voice is timid and soft, like that of the past. As if his past self was surfacing, reminded of the gentleness they shared, longing.
Torch’s hand stills for a moment before continuing, answering in silence.
Once his Clancy, always his Clancy.
So he changes the subject.
“It’s not like I thought it would be, being changed. I still feel like…” Torch trails off.
“Yeah,” Clancy agrees, “Just different.”
They turn to lay face to face. Torch gently cups Clancy’s face, their eyes back to the warm honeyed brown, his face softened back to his former self for a split moment.
“Trick of the light” Corpse thinks to himself, but gives a small smile anyways.
As dawn breaks and the sun begins to rise, rays shining through the window of the tower, they lay entangled in each other's arms, in a restful sleep. A sliver of unseen crimson shimmers. A red string, attached tightly to the wrists of both Corpsebearer and Nova Bishop, tying them together, in every life, in every timeline. Never to part again, until the end of their days.
“I will follow you until the day I die, whatever path you choose, I am yours”
A/N: WARNING: Dark themes, SMUT, Shameless smut actually. MDNI
I do not own any rights to anything related to twentyonepilots or their lore of Trench. I do not consent of my works being used in any forms of AI. Thank you and Power to the Local Dreamer |-/
Copyright @onlybonesremain
The night was quiet, yet the air was humming with anxiety. A typical cool night on the mainland of Trench where a rebellion group, who call themselves the Banditos, were preparing for what would be a final battle between the council of Vialism. Against the Bishops. Against Dema.
Dema was a strict and cold place, devoid of self expression or any views that didn’t align with the council, a city with no entrance or exit. The citizens of Dema, are those who unfortunately are trapped with no foreseeable escape. Not that they would even realize they would want escape, while in the confines of the city a person’s mind is clouded and body weak with the vials of neon that is required to be injected on a daily basis. Day in and day out is the same, confined to a room until meals at the mess hall then classes with the teachings of Vialism for all the young ones. The elders either become the Glorious Gone or Bishops. Adorning blood red robes, Bishops uphold the laws of the city, faces covered and never truly seen as they are an entity under Vialism. The Glorious Gone is supposedly a high honor among citizens, the body of a citizen is taken and used for furthering the teachings in whatever way the Bishops see fit.
There are few, who the Bishops refer to as the “Awoken Ones”, among themselves they are the Banditos. These are citizens of Dema who see past the bleak teachings, who hope for a better life. Hope, that’s what scares the Bishops most, as it breaks down the most vital part of Vialism, that self destruction is not the truth and that there’s more to life than becoming a Bishop or a vessel. Wonder has imagination, it has freedom, it has hope. Freedom is the one thing that is learned early on you do not have in the city of Dema and hope is a death sentence.
Hope is what ended Clancy in this situation, brows furrowed and pacing the marquee tent as Torchbearer leads the final meeting. “You have to keep your minds protected, use your totems you’ve created as reminders, keep your hope and fight” he pauses, “At this stage of our rebellion, Dema is not taking prisoners. No hesitating.” Torch swallows thickly, continuing “I believe in us, in all of you, and Clancy. We have the… resources to defeat them, for good. We will all make it home.” Clancy stopped short at that, catching Torch’s eye.
“Liar”
“Hush, let me get through this”
Clancy clears his throat, Torch shooting him a glare. “The Bishops can and will seize your body, make no mistake, if they want you. That’s it. Stay low and keep your eyes down.” Clancy states, tiptoeing the line of hope and realism. Torch was always keeping spirits lifted, never divulging the full truth, to not scare everyone. Clancy used to like that about him, but after being captured and used, it started to become a prickle on the back of his neck. He wanted to tell them the truth of the matter, even if they do succeed, not everyone is making it out. This is war. He’d hoped the Banditos weren’t that oblivious, but they clung to every word and lead Torch gave them. Sickening, he thought.
Clancy had changed after his most recent capture and stay on Voldsoy, he was easily irritated and had a short fuse when it came to Torch anymore. Dema had used him, seized him and turned his totem from sacred to blasphemous. His voice. Clancy knew the totems worked, for a certain period, but the Bishops could hijack them, twist them. He had told Torch this, yet he refused to tell the Banditos the truth. It angered Clancy. These good people were going to die without choice. Like Dema, no choice.
“They deserve to know, to back out if they choose. No one has to die because of me.”
“They know the risk enough, they aren’t helpless sheep. Stop acting like they are. This is bigger than you Clancy. ENOUGH”
Torch tics his head in Clancy’s direction to punctuate his point. The anger began to boil inside Clancy, a silent scream sitting at the base of his throat. “Thank you Clancy, for that information, please take heed.” Torch begins to roll up the map that was laid out on the table with their plans, “Go rest, I know you are all tired, tomorrow is what we’ve been training for. Meeting adjourned.” As the crowd filtered out, the air was too light for Clancy’s liking, some whooping and hollering, others excitedly going over their plan. It was as if he hadn’t just told them they could possibly die tomorrow.
Torch sighs, turning to pack up what was left into the large trunks against the canvas wall of the tent, exhausted in every movement. Torch was hanging by a thread, mentally, physically. The years of leadership showed in the dark circles under his eyes and a permanent crease between his brows. All he’s done since escaping Dema himself has been missions, late night deep dives of history. Searching high and low for any possibility to end the reign and terror of the High Council. He felt like no one else understood the cost of being the first out, not that he would want that burden on anyone else, but just some understanding. Especially from Clancy. He would do anything for the man, but he didn’t understand the delicacy of morale. How important and impactful it is to keep them informed but not scared out of their minds. Yeah, maybe he was withholding the full truth but only to keep them from being distracted by hypotheticals.
“You’re so full of shit” Clancy says incredulously, walking to the front of the table and leaning over it with his arms wide and splayed out. He tilts his head and bores holes with his eyes into the back of the sage hoodie. Torch stills, his shoulders slumping forward ever so slightly from his words. A lump catches in his throat, the chill of guilt washing over his back and chest. He knows Clancy may be right, telling them the full truth. On top of keeping his white lie of death, he had decided to keep the knowledge of the power they found on Voldsoy as well. For all they knew, the antlers were mere physical weapons, given with some magical properties to be able to take down a Bishop. His people were wary about Clancy enough as it is, being stolen in their midst, then being shown on Good Day Dema as the poster child. They knew he was under their spell, but that didn’t stop some from making their own judgement that Clancy would never be one of the Banditos.
“It has to be this way, it gives them the greatest chance of keeping the faith, keeping the protection of their totem. If they have the distraction of fear, well, yeah they might as well be a Glorious Gone.”
“That’s what they are going to be with your plan already, they need to know to be ready, to not go in cocky with it. To be cautious.” Clancy argues, his voice beginning to raise in frustration.
“You’re one to talk, not be cocky? That’s how you somehow keep getting yourself taken” Torch snaps, looking over his shoulder. The man behind him raises his brow, scoffing in disbelief before pushing off the edge. He shakes his head, beginning to laugh, hurt and walking around to stand next to Torch. He leans in staring as his side profile, wanting him to look in his eyes, to see the fire in them.
“If I’m such a burden, why do you keep coming back for me then huh? You say you care. Can’t lose your precious weapon though, can you? Just using me, just like them”
Torch had it, tired of his contempt, tired of his attitude. He knew he was partly mad because of Voldsoy, using his own powers to guide him, keep him safe, but not being able to physically be there. The night he went to bring him home didn’t go the smoothest. Their worst argument, fragmenting them to the very core. Since that night everything has just been strained, a slow boil of anger, now reaching its point.
“Like them? If you think I’m so much like them, why don’t you just go back huh?” Torch snaps his eyes to the others, turning, and puffing his chest angrily. “Go back and see how they treat you, you think after what, three? Three escapes they will let you back with no consequence? They will torture you, break you, they will kill you and enjoy it.” His breathing escalates, his chest rising and falling, the anger rolling off of him.
“And yeah, I would come back for you, again and again. No matter how long, no matter what it takes. I will always go looking for you. You” He pokes at Clancy’s shoulder pointedly. “My Clancy. There’s been those before you, yeah. But you are the only one to matter, to take my heart and shatter it over and over, yet when you look at me” he pauses, then continues his voice cracking, “When you look at me… the sun rises once again, the air seems sweeter, my life just…brighter”
Torch searches Clancy’s eyes, desperately, his brows creased and that lump in his throat almost suffocating as his mouth becomes dry. Clancy blinks rapidly, his cheeks heating, partly from being so worked up and partly at the admission.
“And what if I fail… All of this in vain” Clancy’s anger slowly turning into something more solemn, sitting heavy on his chest. This question, it’s been on the tip of his tongue for months, a niggling feeling deep in the back of his brain. He could feel himself slipping more and more as of late, the violent thoughts cutting through the night once again. He felt like a tree, strong and tall, years of pain and growth, suddenly being cut in the prime of what could. This is the very reason he had become so impulsive, so emotional, as of late. He felt it in his bones, he would fail, and he couldn’t live with the thought of any of these good people around him dying due to it.
Torch pulls him by his hips, close, resting his forehead against the other’s as his eyes close. He lets out a shaky breath that fans over Clancy’s face, the familiar scent of mint and pine intoxicating him with no distance between them. Torch takes a hand and rests it on the nape of Clancy’s neck before speaking.
“Then… I follow you into the dark”
Torch had made up his mind a while ago, after the last capture. This wasn’t like before, he wasn’t like those before. Since the moment Clancy took his hand and followed him to the camp that first day, it was like his life truly began. Something that he couldn’t explain. Before he truly knew the man, he heart decided it for him. He would go with him into even the darkest night, with no hesitation.
Clancy’s heart skips a beat and his throat tightens. He shakes his head slightly in protest.
“I can’t ask you to do that”
“Good thing you weren’t asking then” he chuckles softly, nervously.
Torch bites his lip, opening his eyes to once again find Clancy’s.
“I will follow you until the day I die, whatever path you choose, I am yours”
Clancy surges forward and closes the gap between them with an intense kiss, his heart blooming in his chest. Torch moans softly, memorizing the feeling of his lips, this moment. His calloused hands making their way up to Clancy’s disheveled locks, his fingers threading through them. Their kisses become hungrier and breaths become low pants. Torch pulls away first, his pupils blown wide, almost black in the low light.
“Come”
He grabs Clancy’s wrist, leading him through the back entrance of the tent, out to the quiet expanse of the night. He leads them down a short path to the secluded area where Torch’s tent sits. During the Voldsoy days, he needed seclusion to project and be there for Clancy. He also needed some space from the camp, being a leader for so many years becoming heavier. Tonight he was thankful for the placement of solitude. He moves the canvas and ushers Clancy inside the tent, on him in a matter of moments. Colliding their lips once again. Clancy lets out a whimper, an arm wrapping around Torch’s neck for stability, the other man taking his large hands to grip at his waist. Torch pulls their hips to meet, a low grunt escaping as their clothed erections meet, grinding gently. Clancy grips at Torch’s hoodie, taking the hem and ripping it up and off to expose his solid, tanned muscles.
A sudden grip at Clancy’s mind shocks through his body, inky stains breaking out on his hands and shift overtaking him. He pulls back, to take in Torch, his eyes tinted a deep red.
“Prove it to me, that you’ll follow me”
Torch nods, rolling his hips again, going to lean in once again before Clancy stops him. He whines at the pause.
Clancy takes a step back, a smirk reaching his lips as he removes his stole from his neck. He slides it back and forth through his darkened fingers.
“Down, boy”
Torch obeys, knees hitting the grass below him.
“Good boy,” Clancy praises, looking down his nose into the darkened pools of Torch’s eyes.
Torch whines in response, his mind becoming blank of all things besides Clancy. The man hovers over him, taking his stole and wrapping it slowly and gently around his neck before cinching it snug to his windpipe. The fabric digs into Torch’s throat, the pressure sending waves of pleasure straight to his cock, chest rising and falling quickly. Clancy chuckles lowly, his grip tightening, as the other man’s eyes close and his hips buck forward.
“My,My. The leader now becoming the lead, is that right?”
Torch’s eyes open as he meets Clancy’s. He sees the other man’s face shifting, the darkness creeping up his neck and jawline, his stature larger than it was, the color draining from his face a bit. He felt strong, like nothing could stop him or hold him back, which wasn’t unusual when he had these episodes. Typically it ended up with Torch and him getting into it, then talking him back down and out of it. Tonight, Torch wanted to let this play out, see how powerful this side of his Clancy truly was. Embarrassingly, it aroused him, being overpowered, used. This time he would let him, letting go of all control, finally.
“Pants off, no touching”
Clancy held the stole upwards and tight, forcing the other’s head up as he removed his trousers, throwing them to the side. He hisses as his cock hits the chilly air, hard and aching. He flexes his stomach for any relief of the tension in his groin, keeping his promise to not touch.
Clancy hums in approval, leading him to Torch’s small cot, the grass plush under his hands and knees. He drops the end of the fabric next to him, removing his jacket, then his white shirt, tossing them somewhere. The tent in his loose fitting pants is painfully obvious. He unzips them, his cock springing free and hitting his stomach, veined and throbbing already. Torch moans at the sight, rocking his hips at nothing. Clancy pulls harshly, stilling his movements.
“That’s not behaving, only good boys get rewarded”
“I’m sorry, please, so so sorry” he babbles in hopes to get back in good graces.
Clancy’s gaze softens.
“That’s alright, I know you are my good boy, always so willing”
He takes his free hand, gripping Torch’s throat pulling him into an open mouthed kiss, sliding his tongue over his bottom lip.
“You may touch” he says simply against the others lips.
Torch wastes no time as he grasps his cock, pumping it slow and steady. Clancy watches him with hooded eyes, as he gasps and moans needily, his pace quickly speeding already. He lets out small rhythmic moans, moving his hips back and forth. The scene before him was captivating, his curly haired man falling apart already, and he hadn’t even touched him. His freckled cheeks all red and worked up, his mouth open and head tilted back being held up by the fabric he controlled. He felt power drunk… and he loved it.
Torch’s moans became more frequent, pitch growing higher, his balls tightening. A coiled heat threatening to release.
“Enough”
Clancy cuts through the pleasure, leaning forward to still his hand. Torch’s head snaps up, his eyes glassy from what almost was.
Clancy takes his own hand, beginning to pump himself. The leaking pre-cum gives a nice slip, as he tugs himself, with his free hand taking Torch’s hand from his cock and to his mouth. He slips two rough fingers into his mouth, licking over the digits, coating them and releasing them with a trail of saliva connecting them.
“Use them” short and commanding
Torch’s cock leaked at his words, as he took his fingers to his tight ring of muscle. He pushes them into himself, slow as they feel resistance. His eye rolls back but Clancy brings him back to the moment, snapping his head forward to look at him.
“Stay your pretty eyes on mine baby, get yourself nice and ready for me”
Torch blinks to focus as he leans back on his fingers, pushing them in and out, stretching himself. Clancy groans, leaning a hand out.
“Spit”
Torch does as he is asked, Clancy taking his now slick hand, jerking his hand quickly. It didn't last him too long as he had been working himself up, watching the submissive man below him follow his instructions, feeding his ego. Clancy rips the stole, causing Torch to gasp and gag,pulling him up and then face down onto the cot, on all fours.
He lines his cock up with the other’s stretched hole, sliding in without warning.
They moan in unison at the feeling, Torch full and stretched, Clancy enveloped in his warmth.
Clancy grips his hip, snapping his hips forward, filling him to the hilt of his shaft. Their chests rise and fall at the same erratic pace.
“Fuck…Clancy, please move, fuck me, please” Torch begs, his hand finding it’s way to his cock already. It’s all Clancy needs to hear before taking a relentless pace, snapping his hips as far as they will go. He continues this way, until Torch is moaning so loud he swears the entirety of Trench, maybe even Dema could hear his passionate noises. It only spurs Clancy further, pounding mercilessly. The familiar heat pulls at his lower stomach and cock, his climax close as Torch tightens around him.
“Tighter, pull it tighter” Torch pleads, tensioning the stole. Clancy pulls, the fabric cutting off his air supply, his head light in euphoria and oxygen depletion.
“Clancy, I’m gonna-” He gasps and chokes, the pressure breaking as he cums hot white strings into his fists, the slick causing a wave of chills throughout his body. Torch tightens as he cums, the sensation sending Clancy head first into his climax. He lets out a deep groan, his fingers digging into the tanned hips below him as he spills deep into Torch, coating inside with warm liquid. Torch rolls back onto him, chasing the final high, as it drips out slowly. Only the sound of their breathing was heard within the tent.
The darkness on Clancy skin retreats, pulling back in at the point of where it started in his palms. His eyes return to their honey brown, his hand running along his Torch’s spine and making the man arch his back as he pulls out with a slick sound.
Torch turns and lays back against the cot, pulling Clancy down to him, connecting their lips intense, heavy and passionate.
It was everything he had ever hoped it could be with Clancy, it took a mental load off of him, to not be in control for once. The feeling of being submissive after all these years, it was absolutely euphoric. They pull back for air, Clancy loosening and removing the stole, a light ringed bruise forming underneath the smooth skin. He runs his hands over it. “I’m sorry Torch, you should’ve told me…” he trails off quietly. Torch’s cheeks break out in a heat, “No… I prefer it that way” he laughs. Clancy smiles softly and chuckles, leaning to kiss along the marks he created. They lay back, turning into each other, gentle words, hushed kisses and soft touches lulling them to sleep.
The morning was sure to come, the Banditos supplied and ready. They most certainly heard some of what went down in Torch’s tent the night prior, so the image of the two lovers making their way to the battlefield hand in hand did not surprise them.
Clancy was correct. Banditos were lost. They fought with a valiant effort. Their totems gave little protection with the strength that Dema held. The seized bodies of the Glorious Gone, attacking in hoards, too strong for many. Pangs of sadness and guilt wrecked Torch, but he knew he did what he felt was right. Their bodies would be taken care of by the survivors, per protocol he gave to a select few officers, giving them final rest without the torment of becoming a Glorious Gone.
Torch tried as he might, hoping with his whole being that this was the last time, that Clancy would finally prevail and end the cycle. After being thrown back with the power surge between Nico and Clancy, his ears rang, but hope made him quick to bounce back. He busts through the others in his battalion, pushing to the front on the line. Clancy stands, back facing towards Torch, his eyes closed. Unbeknownst to him, Clancy was taking in the final warmth of the sun as the ashen stain made its way permanently from his hands, to his arms and up over his chest and jaw, finally settling like a morbid smile cutting his lower lip from the upper. Clancy sighs, the weight of being the “Chosen One” falling from his being, as he leans down to collect the crimson robe, slipping it over his arms and upon his shoulders. A new feeling, weighed in a different way, overcame him. Doubt. Doubt that Torch would decide to deny him. Silently, he makes his way over to Torch, another robe in hand. When offering the final deal, Clancy, now Nova Bishop, asked him wordlessly, nervously, the red fabric suspended from his hand, shaking slightly. A disheartened look crosses the man’s face briefly, but he accepts with no hesitation, in turn breaking a cycle, just not Clancy’s. Following him into the darkness, just as he promised.
