#The setting sun the color of the blood they spilled! The defeat of their enemies and the way this added insult to their injury!

[tswwwit]

How would dipper propose to bill? -without any devious intentions, just pure love 😍

He'd absolutely overthink it to hell and back.

We're talking making notes and charts and a list of Everything That Must Go Right for the Perfect Setup. He's made a list of seventy-three options and eliminated half of them. He's fussed over the ring and has three different options stored in his sock drawer, one in the bottle of shower gel Bill doesn't use, and one up in the rafters. There's an excel file with probabilities for weather and temperature and the mood Bill might be in at that exact moment.

Of course, all these things completely fall apart in the most chaotic manner possible, with a high chance of 'near-death experience' to boot.

Dipper ends up blurting out 'Marry me' after the battle, seizing Bill's hand while his own are all sticky with the blood of their enemies and the survivors groan in anguish in the obliterated wreckage. And it's the most romantic proposal Bill could ever ask for.

[dr3amofagame]

Hello, idk if you’ll see this, nor do you have to take this request. But I’ve been thinking, and thought up: Dream joined the egg, but not because it offered him world domination or a happy family or any of that; no it offered to treat him kindly, to be affectionate, to be a friend, basically offering him human decency. (With an add on of everyone believing it was for some big reason, but the actual reason gets revealed somehow) if that made any sense. (Idk if this counts as an au or not)

[ask: if dream showed up to the red banquet, that would be very sexy of the writers to make him join the eggpire instead of the pro-omlette]

hehe egg!dream has so much potential ,, this is a ficlet i’ve been working on for a while (writer’s block my detested) but i finally finished it up !! it’s a bit unpolished but oh well - they cant all be winners lmao 

tw: body horror, blood, injuries, implied torture/abuse, starvation, possession, dark/disturbing imagery, dark content, pandora’s vault/prison arc 

Dream gets corrupted by the Egg, because of course he does.

Sapnap trudges through the vine-filled hallway, his face bundled firmly with a holy-water soaked bandana to keep out the worst of the spores. It’s a shoddy defense, but he doesn’t plan to stay long; he’s only been sent on reconnaissance, to see what public enemy number one is planning and get out as quickly as he can. As much as the entire server wants Dream dead, trying to defeat the man the first time was enough of a feat, never mind with the power of a giant demon egg on his side - to try and fight him now would be practically impossible.

The floor squishes underneath his boots, and his lips curl in disgust; the vines are thick and moist and feel ugly and rotten to the core. He can’t imagine anyone being anything but repulsed by the things, but he guesses it makes sense for Dream to be drawn here - corruption attracts corruption, it seems. It only figures that Dream would be desperate enough for power to let himself get possessed by the living - if you could really call it living - embodiment of decay and deterioration itself. The feeling of the floor giving way underneath his footsteps has another wave of revulsion crawling up his throat, though he’s not sure if it’s directed towards the Egg or his former friend or both.

He reaches the end of the hallway, an itching, pulsing feeling of wrong filling the air in the room just beyond the haphazard archway carved into the stone. With careful hands, Sapnap draws the bandana further up his face, making sure that it is tied securely behind his head - just beyond this wall lies the belly of the beast, the heart of the rot slowly but surely spreading its influence over the entire server. Something hums in the air; whispering, otherworldly sounds pierce through his armor and settle beneath his skin; he pushes on. He knows better than to listen, to try and make sense of the words within the noise - from what he’s heard, by the time you understand what it is saying, it’s too late.

He steps inside; the room feels, for the lack of a better word, red. He’s better suited for the place than most, being a Netherborn and therefore more used to the oppressive heat and heaviness of the air, but there’s something undeniably wrong about how this place feels, something entirely Other having made its home in the room. Every inch of the place feels hostile, angry, hungry, recognizing him as someone foreign and wanting nothing more than his destruction. Unlike the Red Forests, which teemed with life - piglins and hoglins and giant fungus - this room is little more than a twisted mimicry, sucking the air dry, leaving little more than husks behind.

His hand immediately goes to his sword, drawing it with a dull, metallic scrape. The room is eerily silent save for the Egg’s hissing whispers, and he frowns; he’d expected an attack, but the room is still, quiet; a mockery of peace that only makes the uneasy feeling in his gut grow further. He trudges forward, watching against the puddles of lava and smoking magma scattered over the floor, but nothing stirs.

There’s a growing pressure against his skull with each step into the room, and his hand tightens on his communicator; they’d set up a stasis chamber, just in case things went south, his way out of this place only a few button presses away. Still, nothing moves; no Bad or Ant popping out of nowhere, weapons in hand, no Dream driving an axe between his shoulder blades as he’s done so many times before in their spars. There’s only the sound of his footsteps against the rotting growths on the floor and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears and the Egg’s warbling voice, beneath it all - beckoning, almost kind.

He swallows, throat dry, and moves forward.

His feet carry him to the back corner of the room, to the rotting, pulsing core of the wrongness plaguing the entire server. Even through his bandana, the air feels foreign, nearly choking him, and he strains his eyes against the glare of the lava to look up at the vines’ rancid heart, the Egg. Up close, it’s almost underwhelming, only about three times his height, hardly coming halfway up to the ceiling of the room. What it doesn’t have in size, however, it makes up in sheer presence; the hissing whispers in his head grow louder, crawling under his skin and between his bones, and he curses under his breath as he prepares to call for his way back. Dream isn’t here; the mission is a bust.

“Sapnap?”

He freezes.

It takes a moment to realize that the voice wasn’t in his head, as raspy and unsettling as it was, and his eyes traced the edges of the Egg to a dull colored shape at its side, completely overlooked in his initial sweep of the room. He watches, a dull horror rising in his chest, as the shape moves, twists around on itself in an entirely unnatural way like a marionette pulled by its strings. A pale dot rises from where it had been hidden against the bright red of the Egg; it’s a face, Dream’s face, covered in clawing vines, stark against the bone-white of his sun-starved skin, vomit racing up his throat at the sight of the vines having made their homes in jagged wounds all over his face and neck and disappearing into the torn scraps of his prison uniform, each one spilling crimson in the form of writhing vines and thorns instead of blood.

“Sapnap,” Dream says again, his mouth moving with the words but something entirely other having made its home in the air of his lungs, a shivering rasp to his voice that lifts and falls with the same desperate hunger that saturates every tainted inch of the room. His neck tips to the side, shifted over by a twisting vine tangled within his hair and wrapping a crown of blood-red thorns over his forehead, tendrils drooping over his face and framing the gaunt edges. “You came.”

“Dream-” the anger comes back, familiar, at the other’s words - the same red-hot rage that had boiled within him in that first and only prison visit (you took so long) but it dissipates as fast as it comes. Dream - if this remnant, this shade, this corrupted, mangled half that seems more corruption than human can even be called the name of one he had once considered his best friend, his brother - stumbles closer, held up by the vines that twist over his shaking legs, one having the pale, ragged edge of a bone clearly having ripped through skin - and Sapnap does throw up, this time, dragging the bandana from his face and heaving bile all over the floor.

“What happened-” he cries, flames licking up his arms in defense when his friend-turned-monster-turned-this steps closer on a wreck of a leg that should not be able to bear weight, stumbles back to a roaring in his ears-

He is mine he came broken came shattered and I gave him everything I gave him his heart’s desire I am his savior his grace he asked for warmth and he asked for comfort and he asked for nothing but for someone to take his pain and he is mine he is mine he is mine

He freezes, hand tightening over his communicator; Dream stares at him with the one dull-green eye not covered by the vines splayed over his too-pale face, mouth moving but no sound coming out. The roaring, angry sound in Sapnap’s ears grows louder, follows the shape of Dream’s lips come join your friend come with me I will give him to you you have failed him once but not again not again he is mine but you can be mine also and you will be together together together

“-pnap! Sapnap!” Puffy’s words crackle over the communicator, harsh and loud and snapping him out of his thoughts, “Pull the switch, Sam! No, he’s not responding- pull the switch-”

The world dips, and he heaves in a shattered breath, lungs finally full as he breathes in clear air for the first time in what feels like an eternity, hacking coughs pulled from his throat as he tears the bandana off in one sputtering gasp for breath.

“Sap- Sapnap,” Sam pitches his voice low, comforting, a hand rubbing up and down his back, but all Sapnap can see is the skeleton of a man held together by red thread, the life leached from his skin and leaving nothing left, he asked for nothing but for someone to take the pain and he is mine he is mine he is mine-

“Sapnap,” Puffy’s voice is tinny with concern, “What happened? You stopped responding and the time passed so we pulled the switch on the stasis chamber- are you alright? Did he attack you?”

“I-” -you have failed him once but not again not again you will be together- “I need a moment.”

He scrambles away, feet carrying him away from Church Prime, away from the Holy Land, away away away until he’s standing on the Community House roof, staring at his hands at this home, destroyed, this home, rebuilt, this home, empty and wrong and a shadow of house for a shadow of a man, a shadow of a friend found, a friend lost- and sobs.

What had he done?

[blackbriarsparrow]

The Ballad of Shimura Danzo (taken from: Born from Winter Ash)

The Ballad of Shimura Danzo Arc I (Born from Fire)

 No mercy.

It is the phrase that Shimura Danzo grounds into the malleable skulls of his burgeoning army of adolescents. Danzo walks tall with his hands clasped behind his back, squinting through the noonday sun as he watches the young boys in the training arena. He has a favorite. An indomitable youth with moonlit hair; a trait, no doubt, given to him by the gods. They have a habit of marking their favorites and Danzo has learned to recognize the signs.

The boy is naught but nine years old, and already he is fast and strong. He listens with eager ears and watches with careful eyes. His movements in the arena are meticulous, and he has yet to be defeated by an adversary. He is a tolerant warrior, and Danzo is most impressed with the youth. He watches him use the bamboo Shinai to knock his opponent off his feet. Obito lands on the ground, the air whooshing from his lungs as he stares up at Kakashi and holds his injured ankle. “Breathe, Obito,” Kakashi reminds him. “On your feet.” He offers his comrade a hand.

Danzo strikes Kakashi on the back of the wrist with the flat edge of his dagger. The crack is loud enough to draw attention from nearby sparrers. Kakashi inspects the smarting welt on his wrist. He looks up at Danzo with a frown on his face and anger flaring behind his lucid eyes.

“We do not help our enemies, Hatake Kakashi. Why are you offering this boy your hand?” Danzo slides his dagger back into his holster and looks at the boy expectantly.

“Obito is not the enemy, Hersir. He is my comrade.”

“And how will Obito become the best warrior he can be if you are always there to carry his weight? Obito relies on you too much. You only think you are helping him Kakashi, but you are indeed enabling him to be weak.” Danzo leans forward, leveling his gaze with Kakashi. “If Obito is to become strong, you must show him no mercy.”

Kakashi frowns at Danzo, and Danzo sees the wheels of thought turning in his mind. Danzo thinks he is getting through to the lad, but Kakashi believes in a different code and no amount of manipulation on Danzo’s part will cause Kakashi to change his mind.

“Finish him,” Danzo instructs.

Obito, lying on the ground with his elbows propped beneath him, looks up at Kakashi with parted lips.

“Hersir?”

“Make him fight for his spot, Kakashi. The Black Army does not tolerate weakness. Make Obito prove that he belongs here.”

Kakashi does not move. His hand tightens around the Shinai.

“I said,” Danzo repeats, “finish him.”

“He’s wounded–”

Before Kakashi can finish his sentence, Danzo lunges and reaches for the boy’s Shinai. He wrenches it from his hand, but Kakashi leaps when Danzo swings. He rolls to the ground, scooping up Obito’s abandoned weapon and uses it to parry off Danzo’s swift attacks. Kakashi is very small compared to the Hersir, but he is fast and strong for his age. He manages to block each of Danzo’s strikes, but Danzo leaves no room for Kakashi to present a countermove.

Danzo means to teach the boy a lesson. If he will not do as commanded, Danzo will break him until Kakashi’s will bends to his authority. He strikes the boy hard in the ribs, and Danzo is sure he hears them crack. Kakashi’s face pales, but he does not let go of his weapon. The boy plants his feet, leaving his right side wide open for the strike. Danzo sees the opening and he means to take it.

He would have taken it, that is to say, but the boy pivots and brings his Shinai down hard over the side of Danzo’s head, right above his ear. Danzo’s vision blackens at the edges and stars crackle and sputter like fireworks in his head. He feels the ground beneath his knees. Suddenly, Kakashi is the same height. The boy is looking at him with wild fury and Danzo knows he has struck a chord.

“No mercy,” Danzo pants, wavering on his knees.

Kakashi cries out and brings the Shinai across Danzo’s mouth. He manages to break a tooth and the taste of hot copper spills over Danzo’s tongue. He falls to the ground, laughing as he spits blood onto the dirt floor of the arena and smiles.      

The Hokage sees everything from her window.

Arc II (Born from Ash)

Malodorous smoke spans across the night sky and shouts and cries from the burning village are heard through the blackened trees. The white-masked man thrusts a small bundle into Danzo’s arms and he expects the thing to cry. Ash from the stable fire rains down through the gnarled bare branches of the surrounding trees, settling like freckles on the babe’s small, heart-shaped face.

Danzo looks at the girl; the crown of her head adorned with soft pink curls. He thinks her family named her adequately; for her hair is the exact color of Sakura blossoms. Oddly enough, the girl’s pink hair is not her most notable feature… She is gazing up at him with eyes so green Danzo is forced to think of the spring-time forest after a rainstorm. They are the eyes of a witch; so wide and so bright – undoubtably given in favor by some infernal siren goddess. The child’s birth was prophesized by the gods, after all, and Danzo seeks to use her gifts to exact his revenge on the accursed Black Army.

He thinks only of his success as he climbs into the saddle of his war horse, tucking the babe within his cloak as he rides out into the night with his men following close behind.

The baby never cries.

Arc III (Forged by Iron Will)

Sakura is ten years old when Danzo begins training with her. He looks for signs that her powers will manifest, but he sees nothing. She is a good warrior. Smart and capable; a force in her own right. She is small and works hard to prove her worth in the training field. The boys don’t take it easy on her, but Sakura never yields and she does not complain. She shows determination in the face of adversity. Danzo cannot help but see the parallels between she and his former favorite prodigy. It is for that reason Danzo chooses to watch Sakura from a distance. He does not wish to be reminded of Kakashi. With any luck, it won’t be his blade that cuts Kakashi down when he takes his final strike against Konoha.  

His plans are shaping up nicely. His army is growing, and he is building allies outside of Kumoga borders. It will still be years before his army is ready to take on the Konoha elites, but he will test their strength and determination before he sets his plans to motion. Sai shows promise with his mage abilities; a very useful trait that Danzo can’t wait to exploit. He trains more careful with these Kumoga’s warriors. He can’t risk getting ejected from Kumoga before his plan comes to fruition.

The Raikage knows nothing.

Arc IV (The Birth of a Phoenix)

The night sky turns red, a mirror of bloodshed, from all the lives that were lost in battle. There is a thick haze, choking out the stars so that no light shines through. It is a cold, unforgiving night. The wind howls with the death mourners and smells of frozen copper.

Danzo counts the warriors that return home and he notices that Sakura is not with them.

Sai is injured. Omoi supports most of his weight as he carries him through the village gates. “What happened to Sakura?” Danzo asks.

Sai’s face is a ruin of blood and tear tracks. He works his jaw, but he cannot say the words that are stuck in the tangled nest of his throat.

“She fell,” Samui answers beside them. “I saw a warrior from the Konoha village stab her in the side. She’s… gone…” Samui’s words are barely a whisper.

Danzo clenches his fists and thinks of what a pity her wasted life was. She never came into her Healing powers and yet Danzo feels her loss like a swift punch in the gut. He tells himself it is because he won’t get the chance to use her against Konoha.

His mind involuntarily conjures images of the babe with big green eyes and he remembers that she never even cried when he took her from her home…

Arc V (Born from Retribution)

The warriors from Kiri are heedless. Danzo admires their stamina and thirst for blood. They are a savage nation, behind the progression of time, and easily persuaded with gold and marauding. They lack a strong figurehead and Danzo effortlessly slips into the role. They follow him without question and are eager to strike the Black Army.

Danzo does not tell them that most will not return.

The Black Army is strong. They will survive this particular attack.

Danzo tells the Kiri army how to get onto the mountain without being seen. He instructs them to take whatever strikes their pleasure in the raid. “Burn the village to the ground if you must,” Danzo tells them. “You will only have a chance at penetrating the barracks if you draw out the warriors. Our goal is to weaken them.”

“Lord Hersir,” one of his men addresses him. “Our attack will only serve to anger them. They will come looking for us when it’s over.”

Danzo presses his lips into a thin line. This one is smarter than he looks. “We want them to attack Kiri,” Danzo says, enunciating each word with careful articulation. “The rest of the Kiri army will be here waiting for them. My allied forces will join in and the Konoha elites will be severely outnumbered.”

Danzo doesn’t say this aloud, but he is uneasy that he hasn’t received word from the clans surrounding Konoha. He suspects The Spy of the North has intercepted his messenger hawks. No matter. Danzo doesn’t need the alliances of those neutral clans. With half the Kumoga army under his wing, the warriors from Kiri, and allies from Waves, the Black Army won’t stand a chance against him. As long as they march on Kiri, Danzo will take them at the river crossing.

The Black Army will be his for the taking.

Arc VI The Down-spiral of a Hersir

After the fallout, Danzo leads his newly split forces into the woods as night falls like a cloak behind him. They left so many wounded, but it is of no concern to him now. Those who stayed behind in Kumoga are now his enemies. Danzo made himself perfectly clear: join him, or forever be ostracized. After he takes the Black Army, he will eradicate what’s left of the Kumoga warriors and leave the nation completely defenseless.

Danzo works his hands into fists, grinding his molars.

Sai chose to stay behind.

Years of training flash through Danzo’s mind – all the effort and special attention he paid the boy was all for nothing…

Danzo has never feared the gods, but he wonders now if this is his punishment for taking the child prodigies from their cribs so long ago… Sakura died in battle and Sai, his most notable progeny, had chosen to stay behind with the wretched, poor excuses of Kumoga warriors. Sai wasn’t even Kumoga! Perhaps he should have been honest with the boy about his true lineage, but Danzo could not tell him of his interference… After all, he had needed Sai to trust him.

All for nothing, Danzo repeats over and over, like a poisonous mantra that coils through his mind.

It is of no matter, Danzo tells himself… their losses will be of no consequence; the plans of attack are already placed in motion. The Black Army will be his in a fortnight.

Danzo’s hand trembles as he leads his army through the woods.

 https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13781683/1/Born-from-Winter-Ash

[hongism]

not your typical flower shop story - chapter 5

➻ Pairing: Taehyung x Reader, Jimin x Reader

➻ Genre: Flower Shop Owner!Taehyung, College!Reader, College!Taehyung, Gang/Mafia!AU Angst, eventual smut, Lovers to Enemies to Friends to Lovers LOL, Strangers to Lovers

➻ Word Count: 5.0k

➻ Rating: M

➻ Warnings: language, talk of guns and weaponry, a bit of blood, guns are present in this chapter

➻ Summary: You always goes to the cute boy next door’s flower shop across the street because hi yes he’s the cutest damn person you’ve ever seen, until one day a guy with tattoos and a severe obsession with the color black shows up in the shop asking for the ‘usual’ and you find out that your cute innocent little flower boy has a dirty little secret.

⇐ previous | next ⇒

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You force yourself to step forward. Heavy feet drag you to the edge of the bar. He turns to face you when you’re still three feet from his stool. Your heart nearly stops beating in your chest, blood runs cold, eyes surely bulge out of your skull. A smile is the first thing you see, dark brown eyes hidden behind the soft crescents of his eyelids. Plump lips. White teeth. Crescent eye smile. And –

“There you are, princess.”

A gunshot echoes through the room. You sigh, looking forward to the target only to see that your bullet missed yet again. You lower the pistol to your side with a grimace. The target taunts you: its body-shaped cutout looming in the distance with no bullet marks across its metal surface. A voice rings out behind you to drive the metaphorical knife of defeat further into your chest.

"You're distracted."

"And you're annoying," you grumble in response, repositioning the pistol to aim at the target once more.

"Don't look so surprised. You were told I would want to see you, were you not? Come now, princess, don't get cold feet on me now."

"You're putting too much weight on your front foot. You need to keep the weight balanced so that any recoil from the shot doesn't throw you off."

"You look about as confused as I thought you would. Don't worry, we will have plenty of time to discuss things in the future. Now that we're working together after all. Isn't that nice, princess?"

"Are you listening, Y/N?" Yoongi's voice cuts through the memory. You jerk your head to look over your shoulder, eyeing the silver-haired man. Instead of responding, you try your best to shake the memory away from the forefront of your mind and aim your gun. There is a slight tremor in your hands, barely visible, but audible. A faint clicking that resounds in the silence of the warehouse. 

"I wonder how long it will take for you to abandon me this time. Three months? Two? A week? You've got a record to beat, I know, but try not to make it too snappy. I want to see my princess' pretty face a bit more before you betray me again."

In the moment you had wanted to scream, yell, shout, anything that would be loud enough to get through Jimin's thick skull. Perhaps punching him would have been effective, but all you could do was stand there. Looking dumb and clueless, mouth wide open even though you had had a sneaking suspicion that he would be there.

"Close your mouth, kitten. You'll catch flies like that."

He sounded so arrogant, so confident that he was in the right. You aren't wholly sure what happened to his brain when he had his accident, but something must have gone wrong that the doctors didn't tell you about. The Jimin you saw that night in the bar was not the one you left in the diner. It infuriates you.

All the efforts you've made for him, everything you've done, the money you've raised and spent on him, the time and effort you put into visiting and taking care of him -- all wasted on a Park Jimin who came back as an asshole?

You release a string of curses under your breath then unload your clip into the metal dummy across the room. Every single shot misses except for one: a clear hole in the middle of the dummy's head. You don't lower the gun. You just stand in the same position, gun forward and chest heaving, as tears start to well in your eyes.

It's been eight days since you saw Jimin in the bar, made a deal with Namjoon, agreed to give your life away all to see Jimin again, and yet not once have you stopped to think about seeing him again. Namjoon made a point of keeping you busy, jumping between lessons about everything under the sun day and night. Some of that is your own fault since you told Namjoon that you could handle it and would rather just do everything at once. Maybe your feelings are so pent up that they are ready to spill over.

A hand covers yours on the grip of the pistol. It pushes your fingers aside and takes the weapon into its own grasp. You glance to the left, finding Yoongi next to you with furrowed brows. Concerned. Of course. Everyone seems to be concerned. First Taehyung, then Namjoon, and now Yoongi. Everyone except for fucking Jimin. 

"Let's take a break," he mutters. You scowl at the prospect.

"I don't need a break. I'm fine."

"Say that to the dummy with a hole in his head." 

A scoff escapes your lips. You snatch the pistol back from Yoongi and make quick work of releasing the empty clip and putting a new one in as he showed you the first day of your little "training sessions". 

"That's the point of this, isn't it? Hit the damn target?"

"You haven't been listening to a single word I've said in the past two hours. The point is to manage your surroundings. Not the targets. Scoping out. Not just shooting."

"Can we move on then?"

Yoongi's lips close before another sigh can get out. "What's wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?" You ask. 

"Your hands are shaking, you can't focus, you haven't been listening to a word I've said. Something is wrong."

"It's nothing," you hiss out between gritted teeth. "Let's just move on and start a different lesson." You raise your pistol again, aiming it at the target to fire once more but Yoongi stops you. He places his hand over the gun and pushes it down to your side.

"How about you stop. Just take a break."

"Why do I need a break? Isn't Namjoon sending me on a job today?"

"It's a training job. Not a serious one." Yoongi eyes you. You fidget under his gaze, uncomfortable with the way he seems to be reading your emotions and thoughts with only a stare.

"Well, I need to be ready for it nonetheless."

"Is it about Jimin?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Your retort gives away the issue, but honestly, it's better than straight-up confirming what Yoongi thinks. 

"Your mission tonight is with him. Did you think I didn't know that? Or notice the conversation you shared last week in the bar?"

"It was hardly a conversation, so don't call it that."

"Y/N..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"We can reassign you. It's okay to not be ready for a mission with him. I can ask Namjoon to put you on duty with someone else."

"And do what?" You counter. You let your arm relax at last, pushing the pistol into Yoongi's outstretched hands, and take a few steps back. "Sit around not doing anything?"

"You have been working nonstop for the past week. Maybe you need to sit around not doing anything." Yoongi holsters the pistol in the band of his pants. He has thankfully stopped looking at you, but you still feel the concern radiating off him in waves. 

"Where's Taehyung?" You ask, shifting the conversation.

"Doing his job," comes Yoongi's short response.

"Just put me with him for the night then. I can sit around being useless next to him. Would that make you happy?"

"This isn't about my happiness, Y/N. You joined us. You had the opportunity to walk away once you found out that Jimin was here too. But you didn't. You stayed."

"I didn't think--" You stop yourself, refusing to let the words reach the air between you and Yoongi. "I thought... nevermind. You know what? I'm fine. It's fine. I will go on this damn mission with Jimin, and everything will be fine." You step around Yoongi, ignoring the hand that darts out in attempts to grab hold of yours, and instead make your way towards the door of the warehouse. Footsteps resound behind you. Yoongi is following you, but of course he is because he can't seem to leave well enough alone. 

Stepping out of the warehouse, you are greeted by darkness. Yoongi falls into step beside you despite your cold aura. The two of you walk through the alleyway in utter silence, the only sounds coming from the road before you. Cars whiz to and fro, as fast as your thoughts at the moment. As thankful as you are for Yoongi's silence, it doesn't help get your mind off the fact that you are going to have to work with the new Park Jimin tonight.

Over the past week, you have made many efforts to avoid him. Either he isn't around all too much at the base Namjoon set up, or you did a good job and failed to run into him. You don't want to work with him, but it seems stupid to go to the leader of a gang and say hi I don't like this person, can you not assign me with them? when it's your first mission. 

It's fine, Y/N. It's fine. A simple little mission. One dinner. No guns needed, no hostiles, just gathering intel. It's easy.

Except it's the opposite of easy. You are going to be sitting across from Jimin and have to fake niceties with him as he does the hard work of gathering intel. In other words, you're a decoy for him to use as cover. Isn't that fantastic? 

Yoongi senses your discomfort. He doesn't say anything but you feel him step closer to you, shoulder brushing against yours as you walk. 

"Listen, Y/N," he says after the two of you reach the sidewalk by the road. "You don't have to take this mission. There is no shame in not being ready for it."

"Yes, there is," you grumble. The image of Jimin's taunting grin surfaces in your mind. "If I don't..."

"Namjoon will understand. He's really good at that surprisingly."

"This isn't about Namjoon." You pause, dragging your tongue over your lips, and glare down at the sidewalk as it disappears under your feet. You aren't sure what you're trying to prove. As much as Yoongi is confused, you are too, and there are a million reasons as to why you might be feeling this way. Jimin is at the top of the list. Of course. Of course. He was the only reason you joined. The money was to be for him, and when you confirmed that he was no longer in the hospital and working with Namjoon, the purpose was to be with him. You have a million and one medical bills to pay off because of him. A higher apartment rent to pay because of him. For as long as you can remember, everything you've done has been for him. You always imagined that it would all be worth it in the end, you would get to have closure and happiness again after it all ended, and yet here you are. Way sooner than expected. Far more disappointed than you could've imagined.

You stop in your tracks. Yoongi continues to walk forward a few steps before he notices that he's leaving you behind.

Closure. That's what it's all about: having even just a shred of closure from Jimin.

"I think I'll be fine, Yoongi." You resume your pace and leave Yoongi to catch up with you without explaining your sudden halt. "It's not that big of a job, right? All I need to do is sit there and look pretty for Jimin." There is a tinge of bitterness concealed in your tone, one that Yoongi doesn't comment on because he must know that you're right. As much as you don't like it, you still have to do it. Sure Yoongi said that you could ask Namjoon to reassign you, but if this is your one chance at closure with Jimin, then you need to take it.

The sun is breaching the midpoint in the sky, clouds dissipating and unleashing the heat of the day on you. You increase your pace, and Yoongi follows suit. It's a mystery how he manages to survive the heat whilst wearing all black all day. The two of you reach the front of a grungy bar, the dark wood a looming familiarity before you.

When Namjoon initially agreed to take you to his "base" as he called it (all the verbiage he uses is something you have yet to get used to), you were expecting to leave the bar and go to some super-secret building, but no. Instead, he took you around the corner of the bathrooms in the bar to a simple metal door and told you to go in. Of course, you should've assumed he would have a secret underground base somewhere, but a grungy bar was the last place you thought of.

Yoongi opens the door for you, letting you step in first before following behind, and you sigh when the cool air inside the bar hits you. It's relatively empty, although it's still early afternoon. In your mind, it's not early enough though, because you have to be ready to leave on a mission with Jimin in less than four hours. The anxiety is beginning to build up and bubble in your gut again. If Yoongi notices, he opts not to comment on it this time.

The walk to the door in the back is quick, made quicker by your haste, but you have to wait for Yoongi to catch up anyways since he holds the key to going further down.

"Why are you thinking so hard?" He asks at last while fiddling with his keys.

"I'm not," you argue.

"You have a bad habit of lying, Y/N."

"I'm not trying to..." The words come out quieter than you intended, making it quite obvious how you're feeling. Yoongi's long fingers hesitate next to the doorknob.

"If you're not careful, I'll tell Namjoon to reassign you myself," he mutters as he works the door open. You grimace and look away from the man. A creak resounds when the door swings open, much quicker and more forceful than you were expecting. Yoongi seems surprised as well, a small inhale of shock hissing through his teeth, and he takes a step away from the door.

"You're back!" The voice causes a loud noise to leave your lips, shoulders and body jerking from the surprise. You glance up and find a boxy grin revealing bright teeth. Relief washes over you.

"Taehyung," you greet with a smile of your own. His precious smile is a blessing honestly, and it helps alleviate your anxieties just by seeing it. He's still dressed in his typical casual outfit, along with the white apron from his small flower shop.

"Are you heading out?" Yoongi asks, motioning over the apron.

"Ah, no! I just got back," Taehyung explains. The smile never leaves his lips as he speaks. Yoongi opens his mouth to speak again, but Taehyung ignores him in favor of grabbing hold of your hand. He tugs you towards the descending staircase. "But Y/N, today was slow, so I had some extra time to work on arrangements. I made a really pretty one and thought you might like it, so I brought it back with me!"

Yoongi grumbles behind you, most likely about how he was snubbed, but you can only focus on not tripping down the steep staircase as Taehyung pulls you forward.

“I got a new batch of violets set up at the shop, and I was thinking of giving them to you for your windowsill. But! Then! I had an idea! So I worked on a new arrangement with a whole array of shades of violets. I got some indigo ones along with burgundy and pink ones, so I repotted them. The ones in your window die so quickly so I thought maybe it would be easier for you to have ones that you can water and keep alive for a while.” Taehyung’s enthusiasm is almost infectious, and you continue to smile as he rambles on about the flowers. You don’t have the heart to tell him that you never try to keep the flowers in your window alive. That would be unveiling your little secret about why you went to his flower shop so frequently. Then again, you get to see Taehyung much more often because of your new arrangement here.

Taehyung pulls you all the way down the long flight of stairs, and once you reach the bottom, he turns to you. You aren’t sure whether he’s expecting you to respond in some way but you don’t get to find out because his expectant grin leaves your line sight. He tugs you along, refusing to let go of your forearm. The typically dark underground warehouse is lit up at the moment, a rare sight usually upon Namjoon’s claims that he “thinks better when it’s dark”. Taehyung drags you all the way to his little open office in the corner of the room. The area is shrouded by a multitude of computer servers, a blockade that serves as the walls for his space. Behind all the servers lies a rather bare desk and chair, four computer monitors strung together with wires around them like a spiderweb. And sure enough, there on the desk, is a ceramic flower pot with an assortment of violets in it.

That’s when he finally lets go of your arm, dropping it to motion towards the pot with fervor.

“What do you think? Do you like them?” He asks as you look over the flowers. They’re soft and delicate, small buds and blossoms spread across the green leaves, and all dirt is tucked away from the flowers themselves. You almost reach out to touch the petals but think better of it.

“I love them, Taehyung. They’re really gorgeous.”

“I’m glad! It’s just something small, you know… I figured it might help you in some way maybe?”

“Help me?” You echo, head tilting to the side in question.

“Ah, well, you just – you seem stressed? Ever since joining us. I totally understand; when I first joined, it took me weeks to get settled and used to things. I think I was a high-strung mess for at least two weeks. I figured this might help ease some of that.” He’s even more concerned than when I first came. Great. At least he doesn’t think it’s about Jimin.

“Thank you, Taehyung,” you say with a small smile. “I’m not really good at keeping things alive though…”

“Oh! That’s okay! I can give you a few tips and tricks on how to best take care of the flowers. Maybe tonight after you get back from your mission?” Taehyung clasps his hands together and brings them over his chest. He beams down at you. “I could walk you home? I mean, if it’s not too much trouble… we’re next-door neighbors after all. If you don’t though, that’s perfectly okay!”

“No, no, no!” You refute. “That would be nice, yea.” Especially after the mission. And after Jimin.

“Amazing! I mean, great yes.” Taehyung scratches the back of his neck and turns away from you. There is a ding, then a small whooshing sound that catches both your attentions. He glances over his monitors. “Ah, looks like Emperor sent me a job. I’ll talk to you later, yea?”

You merely nod in response as Taehyung moves to sit down at his desk. It’s at that moment that Yoongi decides to catch up to you two. He clears his throat, and you shift to look at him.

“Speaking of… Emperor asked to see you before your mission.” Yoongi points over his shoulder with his thumb, and you follow his thumb with your eyes. No one is standing behind you so you aren’t sure why you look over there. Nonetheless you do, only to see nothing there except for an empty place. “In his office, Y/N,” Yoongi clarifies as he sees your line of sight.

“Oh yea, of course, duh,” you mutter more to yourself than to him. You move around Yoongi with the intention of going to Namjoon’s office. He catches you by the arm first, brows still furrowed as they were during your training session, and you want to look away.

“You’re leaving earlier than planned,” he says under his breath. He tilts his head away from Taehyung’s little corner, obviously not wanting the other man to overhear. “Star already took care of the reservation, but Emperor wanted to chat with you a bit before you get ready to go.” There is a lingering sense of foreboding in Yoongi’s words, and it feels more like a warning than anything else. As you pull away, you make eye contact with Yoongi and watch the slight shake of his head in confusion. I’m… what is that supposed to mean? Instead of asking for clarification, you merely continue to move away from Yoongi and head for Namjoon’s office with much more hesitant steps.

It only takes one knock for him to welcome you in, the door swinging open a moment after you rap your knuckles against the wood. Except it isn’t Namjoon who answers; rather it’s someone else, a new and unfamiliar face which is a bit surprising since you’ve been in and out of the base for eight days straight now. The man is about as tall as Namjoon, dark hair neatly swept back and held in place by hair gel, and he wears a suit. You weren’t expecting that either, seeing as everyone else you’ve met (aka Yoongi, Taehyung, Namjoon, and Jimin) wear seemingly casual clothes all the time.

“Oh perfect. Just who we wanted to see!” The man greets, full lips stretching into a broad smile, and his eyes fall into soft crescents. He ushers you into the room. Once you’re in, you spot Namjoon. He’s seated behind a large dark wood desk, one that looks quite expensive, in a tall leather chair. You’ve noticed over the past week that he always carries himself with an air of arrogance and pride, and you see it now in the way that he sits. Back rigid and straight, shoulders pushed back, one leg crossed over the other, elbows propped up on his desk.

You step further into the room without any hesitation.

“Have you two met, Miss L/N?” He asks once the door into his office snaps shut.

“No…”

“Kim Seokjin. Business dealings are my specialty but I also dabble in management and politics. You probably know me better as Star.”

“Oh? Oh, yes, yea I’ve heard the name mentioned here and there.”

“The two of you can exchange further pleasantries at a later time. Right now we need to discuss business.” Namjoon motions to the chairs set in front of his desk, and you hurry to sit down. “We had to adjust the schedule of your mission tonight. Move it up a little. The reservation is now for 5:15 instead of 6:30. Our client told us that things shifted a bit on his side so we made last-minute adjustments. However that’s not exactly what we need to talk about.” The other man, Seokjin, sits down beside you as Namjoon speaks.

“Our client requested further intel,” Seokjin explains further once he’s seated. “Paid a significant amount extra for the information as well. The requested intel, however, requires that you and Moon to do a bit more than just a simple dinner.”

“Meaning?”

“I made reservations for you and Jimin to stay at a hotel tonight. The same hotel that the man Moon will be gathering intel from, in fact. Don’t worry, the room has two beds so you don’t need to fret about that.”

“Why exactly do I need to go to the hotel with him?” You ask, voice rising as panic surges through you. You were alright with the idea of having dinner with Jimin for the mission, but having to sleep in the same room as him? That’s far different and far more anxiety-inducing. How the fuck am I supposed to spend an entire night with him?

“To keep up appearances,” Seokjin says. “We need the target to believe that the two of you are a married couple on a date. If he’s suspicious of anything then the mission is at risk. I understand you might not enjoy it, but your job is to make sure that Moon’s cover holds. You fail, he fails.”

“I understand,” you whisper. The man’s words certainly add a great deal of gravity to the situation and your part in it. Perhaps your earlier assumption that you would only be serving as a “trophy wife” was incorrect.

“The target typically spends an hour at the hotel bar. We’ve watched his movements and patterns for a while and know exactly when he will be at the bar in the hotel. You and Moon will go directly there after dinner, Moon will gather his intel, and you will make sure that no one suspects Moon of eavesdropping.”

“Easy.”

Seokjin laughs a little at your small comment. “Exactly. You and I will get along just fine, Y/N. Now, Emperor, I need to go close a deal with another client, so if you’ll excuse me?”

“Go ahead, Star.” Namjoon nods at the man, and he stands to leave without further ado. You watch him go out the corner of your eye before turning back to Namjoon once he’s gone.

“So how long until I get a fancy nickname like the rest of you?” You inquire with a small tilt to your chin.

“I was under the impression that you didn’t care for our “nicknames”, Miss L/N.” Namjoon chuckles, letting his elbows fall off the desk and relaxing his arms some.

“I just don’t understand the significance of them. I mean, Moon and Star make sense together, but what does Emperor have to do with anything? And why do you use codenames sometimes but not all the time?” You’ve never heard Namjoon call Yoongi or Taehyung by any sort of codename, at least not that you’ve noticed. It’s a strange inconsistency for someone like Namjoon who seems so serious about being right all the time.

“Hm well, perhaps I’ll explain it to you one day. Right now, however, you need to go change and get ready to go. You don’t have long until your reservation after all.”

“And am I supposed to wear just this?” You motion down at your current outfit, obviously being a bit cynical with your words, but Namjoon gives you a once over.

“No. Your outfit for tonight is in the bathroom upstairs. Since we made last-minute reservations for the hotel, we don’t have a set of clothes for you to change into after, but the hotel should provide something for you both.”

You nod along with Namjoon’s words. A whole night with him… not how I wanted to spend my night. I guess I don’t have a choice though. 

“Right… uh, then permission to leave?” You try not to sound too upset with the change of plans. If Namjoon notices the tension in your shoulders or the darkness in your expression, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Permission granted.” Namjoon dismisses you with a shooing motion. You’re eager to get out of the office, although you would much rather go anywhere else than get ready to leave for your mission. Yoongi waits outside the door when you leave; however, he must not be waiting for you because the man from earlier – Seokjin – stands across from him. You nearly run facefirst into Seokjin’s back as you step out.

“Oh!” Seokjin exclaims as you bring up a hand to keep yourself from running into him. “So sorry, I didn’t mean to get in your way.” He laughs and steps out of your way.

“No, no, it’s okay,” you reassure with a small smile.

“Are you leaving already?” Yoongi asks when you move around him as well.

“Uh, yeah, I’ve got to go change and stuff first but then we’re leaving.”

“Isn’t it a bit early?” He questions again.

“We had to make adjustments and change the reservation,” Seokjin explains for you, and Yoongi glances over to him.

“Ah, well I knew that but I didn’t expect it to be this early. Good luck, Y/N.” You and Yoongi make eye contact. He reaches out to press a hand against your arm, an obvious attempt to comfort you in some way, but it doesn’t help you much at all. Instead it only makes you feel weak. Weak for needing comfort over something that seems so trivial and meaningless. You brush his hand off your arm, a small smile crossing your lips. It’s a minimal effort to reassure him, and a minimal effort that doesn’t serve any purpose truly because the gleam of concern does not leave Yoongi’s eyes.

“Thanks. It’ll go well, I’m sure. I trust Jimin.” You utter the lie through gritted teeth. No one cares to call you out for it if they suspect it. There is some truth hidden in the words though. Because, yes, at one point you could easily have said that you trusted Jimin with your life. You did. That night at the diner you proved it. Yet this is where your trust got you. Somehow you can’t quite give up all hope on him. Surely the Jimin you knew back then is still tucked away in there somewhere. As much as you want to avoid him and any form of confrontation, you know what’s most important to you.

Him.

You’re determined to do whatever it takes to get the man you knew back. Step one is going on this mission with him and trying your best to trust him again. After all, he’s going to have to trust you to keep his cover. It’s a dangerous game of trust really, and you realize that as you near the top of the long staircase up to the bar. You send a stare down the steps, looking down into the light before continuing upwards into the darkness.

...

a/n: hello hello sorry this was delayed for a bit!! i didn’t mean to keep you all waiting, this story just takes longer for me to write and prep!! i hope you all enjoy this chapter and the reveals and such, please let me know what you think!

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[nekkyousagi]

a Soma Yoshitane drabble - [Setting : Sengoku Basara - Season 2 - after the Battle of Suriagehara] and after this duel

***

Soma Yoshitane fought a jolt of pain that lanced across the span of his rib-cage, willing his body to remain still, trying to keep what dignity he still possessed, as he watched the man before him slowly pace across his meeting chamber.

Tap...tap...tap...

The slow and deliberate tapping of a sheathed sword against his gloved hand, the elegant figure of Toyotomi's legendary strategist halted, a barely audible sigh escaping his strangely rouge-tinted lips.

"Your actions at Suriagehara were most unsatisfactory, Soma-kun. I do hope you realize the consequences your countrymen will have to endure because of your...failure."

Yoshitane winced at the word. Like the heat of a firebrand searing his skin, the tongue of Takenaka Hanbei struck harder than any punisher's whip. He could form no reply.

"You were assured a peaceful existence, if you were to complete the task assigned to you...but I suppose it was too difficult a task, even for the one they call, "Dokubari...."

Takenaka Hanbei neared the Lord of Soma, daring to draw out and point the tip of his multi-bladed sword toward him. Yoshitane could sense the unease of his guards, and saw them grasping their own sword hilts, reading to retaliate. Yoshitane raised his right hand gently off its place at his hip, signaling his men to stand down. They obeyed, reluctantly. He could not risk their brashness against the ruthless strategist. Yoshitane never thought of himself as the best in battle strategy, in fact, it was one of his weakest skills. But he was wise enough to know, any rash movement against this man...would certainly result in disaster.

Takenaka Hanbei lowered the tip of his sword, catching it underneath the Lord of Soma's chin, and forced him to meet his disparaging gaze. Yoshitane's own prideful inner fire burned against the condescending look. A man more than half his size, stood before him with all the confidence of a victorious predator. Eyes the shade of newly bloomed iris flowers, bore into his soul with all the sweetness of a fanged viper ready to strike.

Pursing his lips, the silver-haired strategist mused, tilting Yoshitane's head slightly in mock examination. "I had hoped to see for myself the rumored ferocity of "the Stinger of Soma", but alas, I had neither time nor pleasure once I learned how quickly and easily you were bested...by a mere child."

Yoshitane gritted his teeth at the stinging pressure of that threatening sword-tip biting into his skin.

"A 'child', you say? It is no secret, Takenaka-dono, that this 'child' and his loyal soldiers, were the ones who out-witted your invading armies at Kawanakajima."

He winced again, sharply and outwardly as another pang from his wounds shot across his back and right side. Involuntarily bringing a hand up to nurse it, Yoshitane allowed the fire of his fury to burn through his eyes at his visitor. "If you truly viewed Lord Date as such, you would not have needed to enlist my help, and the help of the Ashina, Nanbu and Tsugaru forces." The Lord of Soma bristled. "You are a fool to underestimate Date Masamune."

"Hm, you are mistaken, Soma-kun," Takenaka replied, easing away almost too gently. "I took every precaution to ensure the Dragon's de-fanging. And true, your quaint little army and fellow Northern tribesman did managed to weaken Date’s forces if by a small margin, but the messy and prolonged battle compelled my Lord to deal with the one-eyed dragon...personally."

Yoshitane paled in horror. "Toyotomi Hideyoshi...was here?"

"Oh yes, I'd almost forgotten. You were quite incapacitated after your own defeat, you haven't yet heard of dear Date-kun's demise...at my Lord's hand." Takenaka almost chuckled, returning his sword to its sheath and then to his hand, like a taskmaster's whip. "A shame the Dragon of Oshu refused to submit to the might of Toyotomi and be spared such a gruesome end..."

No...

Yoshitane's hands fisted in grief. He hadn't known. No one had said a word to him. It had been only a day, not even...a few hours. The sun had set and immediately this snake of Toyotomi had come to claim his end of the bargain. A bargain the Lord of Soma had willingly made, in order to spare his own people the cruel hand of Toyotomi. He never expected things to go this far.

"Takenaka! You said we were to defeat Lord Date, not kill him! You're telling me...that the Dragon of Oshu is..."

Takenaka smiled. Beautiful as his appearance was, he held no compassion in his heart, no mercy. A passion did burn behind those iris colored eyes...the passion for victory at any cost. He turned again, the flap of his half-cape shifting in the candle light. "You really should be grateful to Lord Hideyoshi. The Toyotomi has relieved you of your greatest enemy. And despite your military failure, your little clan is still of some use."

Yoshitane fought hard against the tears that threatened to spill over his cheeks. The pain in his side stung even more, the fresh memory of the dragon's claws slicing through his flesh, forever to leave him scarred. And, if he were to live through this ordeal, forever be reminded of his betrayal...

The image of his rival flashed in his mind...only hours ago. The afternoon sun blazing, the shadow of the One-Eyed Dragon looming over his fallen body. He was sure of his own death...but in a flash of red and gold, Date Shigezane had come between them. Risking his own life, standing strong against the fury of his lord and relative, begging for Yoshitane's life to be spared. Miraculously, his rival stilled the anger of the Dragon, if for a moment, and the armies of Date galloped off toward the last invading forces of Ashina...Shigezane had lingered, taking one last look to make sure Yoshitane was still breathing, then disappeared into the cavalry's dust. That was the last he'd seen of them...

And now...the Date were no more...?

Impatience laced Takenaka Hanbei's alluring but biting tone, as he snapped Yoshitane back to reality. "Our numbers are increasing by the day, and we have need of reliable military assets. We require a sound cavalry."

The Lord of Soma met the strategist's gaze with dread. "No..." he breathed. "No, not our horses. They are the pride of Soma clan!"

"Whatever pride you had was lost when you failed to defeat the Date at Suriagehara. You are aware I have every right to sever your head from your spine for your defiance...but I will consider an alternative. My talons are full. I am feeling generous today." An almost lustful expression came over the strategist's countenance, as he stroked the sheath of his sword from hilt to the handle's tip. Yoshitane cocked an eyebrow, wondering what he was referring to? Was he really taking such pleasure in the death of thousands? Or was it a different prize he was savoring?

"You will deliver two thousand war horses to Osaka in no more than three days time, and Toyotomi will ensure that your lands remain...secure. If you fail to comply..." With a flick of his wrist, black and red armored soldiers appeared from the inner rooms of his estate. A familiar voice hammered and protested at the invading warriors, and Yoshitane felt his spirit drop.

"Mother...!"

"Takenaka Hanbei, you miscreant! How dare you threaten Soma clan! I will not be used as a bartering ploy!" Lady Soma spat, her long hair disheveled, but thankfully she looked unharmed. Yoshitane sighed in relief.

Takenaka chuckled. "Oh, but you will, dear Lady Soma. I know quite well how strong the blood ties are within your quaint little clan. I'm sure dear Yoshitane wouldn't wish any harm to come upon his beloved mother."

Yoshitane growled. "You wouldn't dare."

Takenaka Hanbei's expression steeled, no longer amused by this exchange. Yoshitane noticed a strange ticking tempo in his tapping sword as he drew closer to his mother. "I sincerely doubt you wish to test my patience any further."

Yoshitane caught his mother's gaze, the fire in her eyes begging him not to relinquish the pride of Soma clan to these fiends. Yoshitane's hands shook, images flashing before his eyes. Fond memories of tolerant days of training and mock battles, having finally put aside decades of feuding, replaced with laughter and jaunting. Lord Date's tolerant smirk as he jabbed at the bouts between rivals, the patient but firm training of Master Katakura, the close bonds between men, all now melting away, replaced by the haunting image of...his father. Soma Moritane's will forced itself into his mind as it had the day Toyotomi's strategist arrived with an ultimatum. And just as what happened then, the decision was made for him.

The clan...everything for the clan.

Yoshitane breathed out loudly, like the powerful snort of a stallion. His eyes steeled and he bowed his head. "We will comply with Toyotomi's wishes."

"A wise decision." Takenaka Hanbei withdrew, placing his hands at the small of his back. He turned his head wistfully, a slight movement from his fingers commanding his troops to leave. A muffed grunt, and Yoshitane panicked as they forced his mother to follow.

"Wait...you can't!" Yoshitane leapt to his feet, fists clenched and shouted. "Takenaka!"

In the span of a breath, the silver-haired strategist had drawn his sword, it's clinking sections dancing in the air, razor sharp and deadly, coming to circle around the Lord of Soma's torso. An indescribable pain lashed through him, and Yoshitane cried out in agony. A nod of his head and the Toyotomi soldiers forced Lady Soma outside, muffling her still dignified objections. Yoshitane could not bear it any longer. The tears of shame and anger spilled, burning his cheeks, as he felt the jabbing multi-blade withdraw, the strategist having made his point. Yoshitane fell to this knees.

"The Lady Soma will receive the greatest of care within the walls of Osaka Castle...so long as you abide by our agreement."

Yoshitane painfully nodded, and caught one final cruel yet beautiful smile before the strategist turned to leave.

"We look forward to your continued support."

Yoshitane felt the phantom approval of his warrior father...but the pain he now felt in his heart was far greater than any of his wounds.

[flutteringphalanges]

                                       A Sun In The Night Sky

Summary: A collection of one-shots based off of my story, Mirabile Visu, in which Agatha and Dracula face the challenges and glory of becoming parents. You don’t need to have read the story to understand. To simply put it, this collection of works explores Agatha’s pregnancy, her blooming romance with Dracula, and raising their child.

Pairing: Dracula/Agatha

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N:  Another one shot with the hopes of making your day a little bit brighter. Anyway, comments/reviews/kudos mean so much! Let me know your thoughts and I'll keep the fics pumping! Here's the next installment! Stay safe and healthy! -Jen

Prompt: Agatha teaches a young Sorina how to build a snowman.

                                              Snowman

Winters in Romania were often unforgiving, the landscape blanketed with thick sheets of snow and ice. In the mountains of Transylvania, the cold wind blows, whistling through the evergreens and racking against the bare branches of those barren of leaves. The sky was overcast and foreboding as it loomed over the castle, shielding it from the rays of sunlight. One might consider, for a vampire at least, it was an ideal season. However to those with beating hearts, who existed warm blooded, such was a different matter.

"Mama, it's too scratchy," Sorina complained, frowning as her mother stuffed her into a coat, the woolen collar rubbing against her neck. "And hot!"

"You'll thank me when you don't catch a cold," Agatha commented, buttoning up the jacket. "There, now is that so terrible?"

Sorina looked at her mother, her mouth turned into a pout. The fireplace cast her shadow across the stone floor making it seem like the tiny girl was a lot larger than she actually was. Even with the fire roaring, a chill still sat in the air. With the size of the manor, heating the place was no easy, reachable task. Agatha sighed, holding out a hat lined with rabbit fur.

"Will you at least put on your hat?" Her mother sighed.

Sorina merely shook her head. "Nope!"

"You've inherited your father's stubbornness, that's for sure," the former nun muttered, shaking head. "I know you find your outfit unpleasant, but believe me, it truly is for the best."

The three year old huffed, wiggling her arms as if trying to loosen the snug sleeves. Agatha gave a small smile, reaching for her daughter's hand. When she looked down at her, the dark locks which color matched her father's bouncing past her shoulder blades, it was hard to imagine that just a few years ago she had been a nun stuck at a convent, spending day after day pouring over as many books as she could get her hands on. But now, here she stood, in the walls of her once enemy with a little girl they both shared.

"Come," she smiled. "How about we play with that lovely tea set of yours. The one Papa gave you? Surely your dolls could use a nice warm drink to heat them up."

The young girl's mood seemed to lighten at the prospect and she nodded in agreement. As they ascended the stairs, nearing Sorina's room, a loud gust of air sounded from below accompanied by the heavy creak of the main doors closing. Sorina's eyes lit up, her smile growing into a wide grin as she let go of her mother's hand.

"Papa!"

Agatha had barely a moment to react as her daughter hurried down the stairs nearly tumbling at times. She caught a glimpse of Dracula, smiling too, as he set down what appeared to be a large barrel, and opened his arms to embrace Sorina. The child crashed into his, burying her face into his neck. Such devotion he had towards his daughter, a trait she would've never suspected unless witnessing it first hand.

"Ah, micul mea liliac, how I've missed you," he chuckled, staring lovingly at his daughter. "I brought you something. Would you like to see it?"

Agatha leaned against the banister curiously, somewhat apprehensive as to what her husband had stored in the barrel. Pulling away from Sorina, the vampire grabbed the large barrel and, mindful of where his daughter stood, dumped the contents onto the floor. White, tightly packed crystals tumbled out and spilled across the floor. Snow.

"What is it?" Sorina asked, hesitantly reaching forward to touch. When her fingers brushed against the powder, she shivered. "It's cold!"

"That it is," the vampire smiled. "Snow's like that."

"You brought snow into the castle," Agatha commented, arms crossed as she walked over to her husband and child. "You do realize that it will melt and cause a puddle, yes?"

"Until then, I see no harm with her playing with it," he replied. "After all, it isn't like she can go out and enjoy it there."

The former nun hummed under her breath, watching as Sorina curiously poked and prodded at the snow with her fingers. What harm was it really, a pile of frozen water lumps? An idea began to form in her mind as she squatted down beside her daughter.

"Dracula, if you could, go find two, thin strips of wood from the lumber pile. Also if you go into my room, there should be some buttons on the counter. And a small stone...yes, that would do nicely…" She looked to her daughter, offering a smile. "How would you like to make a snowman?"

                                                             XXX

"Gentle now, cup it in your hands and form it into a ball."

"Like this, Mama?"

"Yes, very good, Sorina, you're quite a natural if I do say so myself."

The young girl smiled, her hands wet and pink from molding the snow into a slightly misshapen, but recognizable ball. The bottom of Agatha's dress was soaked from where she knelt in an ever growing puddle. Dracula watched closely, a corner of his mouth upturned in a pleasant grin as he watched the two work purposely.

"When I was in Holland," Agatha began, placing the first ball on the ground. "I used to build snowmen all of the time with my brothers and sisters. We'd use all sorts of stuff around the farm. Coal. Hay. Bits of fabric."

"Where's Holland?" Sorina asked, tilting her head curiously as she handed her mother the second ball. "Can we go?"

The former nun fell quiet for a second. "Holland is...well it's rather far from here. It's better we stay put here in the castle." Her daughter began to frown so she quickly added. "I think it's time we dress our snowman up, hm? Would you do the honors?"

Sorina perked up. "Yes!" Seeming to have forgotten about the previous conversation-much to Agatha's relief, the young girl began to gently push the button eyes in and carefully jab the wooden sticks into its side. "A snowman!"

"I couldn't have made a better one myself," her mother smiled. "I-" Suddenly, a chunk of snow hit her square in the chest, leaving a dark, wet stain across her front. Her gaze jerked up to meet the playfully malicious grin of her husband. "Dracula! How dare-" Bam! Another one smacked into her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed as she began to fish around in the loose snow. "Two can play at that game!"

Sorina giggled as her mother beamed a snowball at her father who gracefully dodged it. He aimed a third, just missing Agatha's arm. Wanting to be included, the young girl grabbed a handful of snow and ran towards her father. With a rather adorable warrior cry, she smashed the snow into the vampire's pant's leg. Dracula froze, then pretending to waver, slid to the ground in defeat.

"Papa?" Sorina asked worriedly, climbing onto his chest. "Papa?"

Suddenly, the count's arms shot up and took hold of his daughter. Sorina squealed in delight as Dracula lifted her up into the air. Agatha sat down, smiling as her husband nuzzled the little girl's face. The snow had all but melted, but she didn't really mind. A little water never hurt anyone.

[pantheon-god-of-war]

Random Drabble

Leave a “Quite Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to calm yours down [be it from crying, from lashing out, feel free to specify.]

Got inspired while talking to @ask-leona 

Featuring Swain, Leona, Pantheon

The proud red banners that flew the Noxian flag, a symbol of might, to some the promise of liberation to other the bane of freedom. Their vibrant red cloth now laid torn and thrashed in the bloodied sand where men bled their last struggling for one single breath of life, before their flesh cooled. Swain himself had led a fine contingent of soldiers, the elite made up of Trifarian warriors helmed by Captain Farron, into the desert sands of Shurima. The grand general would have never set foot so far into foreign territory without the necessity of his presence. Five times he had sent capable agents into these parts of Shurima, only the last had returned, horribly scarred by arcane fire she had uttered incoherent words about fallen gods, ancient ascension and unfathomable power. Even with the man knowing what he did about Shurima it was those very scattered words, their tone and the constitution they were uttered in that left a primal hunger in him, both of them. It was like an itch that he could not scratch a craving he could not sate. It was this very itch, that made him assemble a new war host drawing soldiers from garrisons and a small contingent of the trifarian legion to act as line backers.

They had landed in Bel’Zhun a fortnight ago and after an initial set up and resupplying of food they moved west along the shoreline, winds were kind to the Noxian expedition and even before they reached Urzeris they had gained an entire day worth of travel. A welcome boon of time that the grand general now could bargain with, they would resupply and ready themselves for the long march that would lead them south towards the ancient city ever close to that itch that gnawed at him, hoping to find something that would abate this desire kindling in him.

But even the vision of Noxus was blind to chance. The fates who had smiled upon the grand general’s endeavor days prior now seemingly delighted in his defeat as he regarded the men before him being butchered like cattle. Their blood stained the sand which thickened to a vile mixture of mud fed by lifeblood of Noxian flesh. The Trifarian soldiers had formed a circle around the grand general with the lower chaff fighting for their very lives as terror gripped at them. Swain himself was shouting orders, trying to get his men into line, into formation. But these creatures cared nothing for formation or armor. They burst from vile rifts that looked like wounds in the fabric of reality. What spilled forth was an amalgamation of claws, teeth, tentacles and thick carapaces coming in all shapes and sizes. From swarms no smaller than rats to beasts the size of basilisks there was no unison. Not a single creature looked like another, it offended Swain’s eye in the most strangest of ways this complete disregard for conformity came with uncertainty, uneasiness. Which was a threat, which was a distraction, which was a drone and which one led them? Questions upon questions thundering onto him almost as roughly as the beasts that descended upon his men leaving nothing behind. Bone, flesh even metal, they devoured it all. Amidst the Chaos Swain did what he could to punish all those beasts that dared break through to him. For now it worked with the combined force of Captain Farron and his Trifarian host. But they knew Swain to be the leader, while he could not determine their hierarchy he noticed their advance, targeting him specifically, was it the arranging of his men, the magic he carried or something completely different?

A loud road snapped all to attention as from beyond the void rift a sun ignited, its power nearly burning the demon from Swain, it was a force of metaphysical nature, the men were unharmed, it was their minds that were terrified, frozen in place even as the monsters descended upon them. But then the terror of realization gripped Swain as well when this giant sun blinked back at him and with a voice older than time itself something pushed through the aching scar, something that would feast on this buffet set out before him. But even with this maw of teeth making its appearance the true terror lurked behind the rift, licking its insatiable lips at the prospect of tasting this realm one day. In this desperate hour Swain had tripped eyes still locked with the beast while its minion advanced ever further with a snapping jaw and vile acid dripping from his maw. The voice in his mind whispered hunger over and over without relenting as the man clawed backwards to gain distance having realized the intent of the large behemoth that now marched for him. A strong hand gripped Swains shoulder and yanked him back, it was Farron who forced himself between the monster and his general. Without wasting a thought he charged the beast, his flails crashing into its face as he roared in defiance. A defiance that was answered with a maw big enough to swallow him whole. His men fought to the last, there would be no survivors here unless they pushed this infernal host back, but the veteran officer knew this was the end, a smrik tugged at his lips at the poetic justice of it all, undone by his only desire.

The sun erupted with searing glory as a pillar of holy fire cascaded down onto the sands, its gnashing flames seemingly searing away the rifts as they closed. Swain hardly noticed the golden spears screaming through the skies as he eyed the gaping maw before him. He stood, broken but defiant hand raised to blast this ugly beast with as much eldritch power as he could muster. Without warning a comet from the heavens themselves struck it, piercing the beasts throat and maw as it screeched with out worldly fury at its demise, not lamenting its death but at having failed it task. With an earth shattering blow it came crashing down to the ground, the blast sending Swain back into a few of the lesser beasts who were thrown off of their feet as well. With screeching chitters they regained their composure faster than he could. The began lunging at him with frenzied zeal, the first strike was caught by the heavy steel plate he wore, the second was retaliated before it could happen as dark magic from his fingertips seared the beast in half the third would have stricken his throat if not for the intervention of a golden blade that sliced the remaining beast in half with ease.

Snapped out of his struggle he glanced up at the radiant lioness clad in gold, her eyes burning like the sun, her weapons lit ablaze. With swift and precise strikes of a veteran warrior she cleaved the beasts that assailed them before her own magic took root and exploded from her. What washed over him was heat, but where he felt warmed, even soothed the beasts burned to ashes. His eyes darted back to her, fire that soothed allies but burned enemies, this magic was unknown to him. He rose on his lonesome, not like she would have extended a hand. Glancing over his shoulder he was relived to see the Trifarian contingent somewhat alive. They had fended off the horrors as now warriors clad in gold had entered the fray, burning spears brought down giant beasts with ease that had claimed fifteen trifarian warriors who had struck it with heavy weapons, their great axes leaving dents at best in the thick carapace where these burning spears slipped through to the vulnerable insides of the creatures. He noticed slight nausea building inside his usually steeled mind as he regarded the chaos of battle, orders were unnecessary here, he had been relegated from the chain of command to a bystander.

He watched as the giant beast which had tossed him from his feet and devoured captain Farron ruptured to reveal the thundering war cry of a warrior draped in blue cloth, the abnormality of the color was instantly noticed, the Ra’Horak and their red headed amazon leader flew golden and red colors, ties to the sun no doubt. But he, he did not fully belong. He stepped from the beasts gaping wound, its blood and guts evaporating from the tautly muscled bronze body that Noxian master stone masons could not have chiseled more perfectly. In his right hand was Farron who for the life of him had no idea what had happened. The Noxian warrior scrambled to his feet looking for his weapons, but not before kicking the slain beast as hard as he could. The Targonian warrior looked around with seeming disinterest, his head helmeted by what seemed to be gold, the burning flame upon his helmet searing brightly. In the flash of an eye that put Noxian assassins to shame he had discarded three more creatures before he deemed this battle won. The helmet turned and now faced the Grand General. It was an awakening call Swain who now looked around to see that this battle had indeed been won with the help of unlikely allies.

With the adrenaline fading it all came crashing down on Swain, the thundering voice in his head, the beyond he had seen, the void rift, the creatures, their non conformity to all he had known and studied, the utter chaos, devoid of logic and reason, it was to much a distressed hand ran through his silver hair as he did his best to hide the cracks. Be it the tensing of his jawline the swallowing, the stroking back of his hair or something completely different, she was the wiser about this struggle, for she knew it all to well. “At ease Jericho.” She spoke, her voice strong but soothing as milk and honey, a contrast to her fury in battle. His own name silenced all. The Noxian soldiers ceased whatever they were doing, not single sounds of armor scraping, or men talking with hushed breaths, only the gentle howling of the desert’s winds provided sound as all else froze.

There was a tug of amusement on her lips at the utter silence she had caused, her eyes briefly darting between his men before resting on the Grand General himself once more. “The ancient enemy is banished for now, but they will return. You did well in repelling them but you understand that you cannot linger here, this is not your battle yet, it will be one day, but that is not today. I trust you will withdraw your troops from these lands.”

“To my understanding the Solari hold no dominion here.” He retorted his tone polite and calm, a man owed thanks, but man had principles. “The sun holds dominion over all she shines upon Noxian. Even your empire. This enemy is beyond you, return to your capital, return to your conquest of lands your accumulation of power, but know that they are all null and void against the enemy that lurks bellow, a foe you cannot negotiate with, an enemy that unites all of us.

“He is infected.” The lone warrior spoke, his voice strong and heavily accented. His tone was calm but a death sentence none the less as he moved forward with slow and strong strides, the spear within his hand gleaming a magic that self the other recognized and feared. It was captain Farron who placed himself between the mysterious warrior and Swain, ready to do his duty to the last once again. Swain had not been the only one to witness the hoplite in action, but Benn Farron was unmoved still. It was a gentle hand of Leona that halted the advance and inhibited any chance for bloodshed. Curious the Raven general drank in the scene, a small droplet of water in this barren desert of an enigma.

He halted, to turn his helmeted face towards the Solari leader and for the smallest of seconds Swain saw more than just companionship flicker in her golden eyes before she returned to focus on the Noxians. The helmet locked Swain out, no eyes no expression. It was at the tilt of the head the warrior gave her that he took notice and began to pierce the pieces together. A small victory for this tremendous setback.

It was Farron who now stood accused of provocation as he tossed his flail to the ground. “Be that as it may.” He growled now drawing the warrior’s attention. “He is the man that reforged Noxus, he holds its vision, he is its savior. And if gods want him slain, then you have to go through me.” A small flicker in the Solari’s smile at the invitation was proof enough that she was not as much in control of the other as she led on to believe. With his burning crest igniting into a more lively fire the warrior stepped forward his spear dangerously close to the captain’s throat. “He is a man possessed by a demon, and you would willingly die for him?” the question came from a face shrouded by the helmets magic and without a single shred of hesitation captain Farron replied. “Without a thought.” Silence took the field.

“Your loyalty is impressive, never tarnish it.” The warrior finally commended with that the test of loyalty undergone he turned and made off. The rest of the Ra’Horak followed him, another curious detail. “Safe travels back to Noxus.” Came the final reply from Leona as she nodded to the Noxian leader before she too turned and made off to follow her host.

Swain was left with a decimated legion, in the middle of the desert, none the wiser about Nerimazeth and yet so many more questions had arisen, begging for answers. With a gentle exhale he turned to his men scanning over them, they would all had a tale to tell back home, he could see it in their eyes. He for one desired nothing more right now than a bath.

[sugarsculls]

why do you think sun and adam should fight? shouldn't blake and yang be the ones to fight him?

Ok I’m actually writing a long post about this because I genuinely do not understand why me saying “I want Sun to fight Adam” all of a sudden translates into “This means I want Sun to win the fight and Blake and Yang do not fight him at all.”

I want Sun to fight Adam, but I don’t think he would win, especially by himself. Realistically I think Sun could stand his ground for a while and serve as a great distraction while Yang and Blake get the better hits, but Blake and Yang are not going to defeat Adam on their own. I don’t care how strong and skilled they have gotten, the enemy grew powerful as well. And the set up for Sun vs Adam is too obvious and too good of one to pass up.

Blake vs Adam is a given. We know it’s gonna happen and we know it should happen and we know Blake is going to win. Yang vs Adam is gonna happen. Girl needs to get revenge on this guy for what he did to her, to Blake, to everyone at Beacon. Those are givens. Those are obvious. 

Sun vs Adam does not defeat any of those purposes. It adds character development for Sun outside of Blake. It adds symbolism and depth to the series. It can honestly be a starting point to help fix what they fucked up with the White Fang in the first place.

I’ve talked about this a lot but there’s no secret that Sun and Adam are paralleling each other in opposite ways. 

Sun and Adam are similar in concept; both are faunus, both are male, both are powerful, both are Blake’s love interests. But…that’s where the similarities end. And yet…they still end up paralleling each other.

Adam represents a very dark thing for Blake. Her fear, her sorrow, her guilt and regret, the shadows inside of her that hold her back. The blood she’s spilled. The blood she’s let Adam spill. He’s a huge factor for why Blake hates herself and constantly condemns herself. He’s unhealthy. He’s toxic. He abused her. He put himself and his ambitions above her, above his own sanity and morals. The Adam Blake once knew is gone. I know we wanna call him the beast but honestly? I think he’s more Gaston than anything lmfao. “My darling” like come on. That’s totally a Gaston line. But, allusions aside. Look at this.

A pretty bland and boring color scheme. Except the color scheme is…literally the same color of the White Fang’s current flag. The WF that crwby wanted to paint as terrorists. The WF that resorted to violence and crimes. 

And then pan to the next shot. Look at Blake’s face.

We know what that flag stands for. We know what she’s thinking of when she’s looking at that flag. We know who she is thinking of. She is thinking of Adam. She’s thinking of who she was. What she’s done. What he’s done. She’s pissed. She’s angry and scared and tired.

Adam holds Blake back. And it’s no secret. He abused her. He was someone she loved. He probably genuinely loved her too. But we know how that turned out. But that Adam is gone. She’s known it for a while. That doesn’t mean it won’t haunt her.

He haunts her. He’s a venom, a poison that still runs through her veins. He represents what the White Fang is.

Sun is the complete opposite.

Sun is a faunus who didn’t really understand why the White Fang did what they did. He doesn’t get it. And coming from Vacuo, where people are treated the same so long as they can survive, it’s no wonder. The discrimination of faunus probably doesn’t exist in the same way in Vacuo as it does in Atlas, Vale, and Mistral. If it does, it’s not in the same violent, hateful method as it was in other parts of the world. Sun legitimately did not understand why the White Fang did what they did. Sun didn’t know his people’s history. He was never taught this. And if my theory about Sun being orphaned at a young age and having to raise a group of orphans by himself until an interracial human-faunus couple took them in is true or at least somewhat true then it makes sense. 

He comes from a place where who the person is and what the person can do means more than what the person is and what the person has done.

Sun genuinely cares. He’s also quick to pick up on things and see past disguises (which is why I’m a little sad crwby didn’t use him being able to see past bullshit when Yang was accused of breaking Mercury’s leg unjustifiably). He instantly recognized that Blake was a faunus. That’s why he winked at her. Like “hey, I’m just like you.”

Sun represents Blake’s love and hope for the future, a guiding light leading out of the shadows. He’s light. He’s the morning to her night, the light to her shadows, the sun to her moon. He’s an opposite of Blake, yeah, but unlike Adam, he compliments Blake and brings out the good in her. The best of her. The most of everything. Every relationship and person has their flaws and that was exemplified in volume four, but that did not make their relationship abusive or unhealthy like how people tried to claim. (like…come on try harder lmfao tauradon’t is literally RIGHT there and you choose…to demonize….blacksun…ok bye).

Sun brings out a lot of emotion from Blake. Hate me all you want, but Blake wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Sun. Now I’m not touching how Yang impacted her because she impacted Blake just as much as anyone else, but think about it.

When Blake accidentally revealed that she was a part of the White Fang her first reaction was to run away. And who found her? Sun. Not her teammates. Not the Fang. Sun. It was by chance obviously, but he knew from the second he laid eyes on her that she was a faunus. He could easily see past that facade. If he hadn’t found her, we know Blake would have run away again. No ifs, ands, or buts, she’s a master at running away, and Sun’s a master at finding her when she’s in a low point.

He was the first person she opened up to. He was the first person she told about her past. Why? He’s a faunus.

People honestly have such a skewed perception of Sun and Blake as a couple because they’re of the same race. That shit ain’t racist they’re not being pushed together because they’re both faunus. They’ve grown closer and have a deeper bond than most people want to acknowledge because they’re both faunus. It’s no secret people feel more comfortable with people of their same race than their oppressors. Ask me if I’d (Blake) feel more comfortable being the only Mexican (cat faunus) in a group of white people (humans) discussing problems that I face that they couldn’t even begin to empathize with, than in the company of one or two other non-latinx poc (a monkey faunus, a bunny faunus, etc.) I think the answer is obvious lol. 

Sun is such an important person to Blake and such an important aspect of her life. This is not me saying all her other friends aren’t important, of course they are, but Sun is the only other faunus friend Blake has. I don’t really consider Velvet a close friend of Blake’s, but I do think they would be friends. Especially since the first and only person Blake approached when CFVY came back from their mission was Velvet, another faunus.

Sun being a faunus is important. Sun brought such a bright light into her life. He’s such a polar opposite than Adam was, but he was someone Blake could see herself getting along with.

Adam puts himself and his ambitions above Blake, but Sun has always acted putting others before him. Everything he’s done has been for Blake. It’s not because “he wants that pussy” like nasties were saying when he found Blake on the boat. It’s because he genuinely cares for her. When has Sun ever put himself above others except for leaving his team behind? Even then, it was for someone else. Sun spent an entire weekend with Blake without even knowing her and she let him. He went up against a criminal syndicate he was viciously against by her side for her. He donned the mask of that organization he despises to help her gather information. Sun asked her to the dance hoping to relieve her of the stress she’s been forcing on herself and have a little fun for once. Be a kid. When she rejected him, he respected that. He took a step back, and left her alone. He didn’t approach her after that. He asked her team how she’s been doing. He was planning to go to the dance regardless (as seen at the end of Burning the Candle). He wasn’t waiting for anyone. He wasn’t expecting Blake to be there. But she found him. They spent the whole night together dancing and laughing! Sun is also the only person to ever make Blake blush and laugh when it’s just the two of them. Sun playfully flirts with Blake, and she reciprocates it. When Blake ran off after the fall of Beacon, you know what happened? Sun saw her run off. Sun saw her run away. Sun saw her do the same damn thing she always did, but you know what? He didn’t blame her. He gave her the benefit of the doubt. He took the time to say goodbye to his team, and tell Yang when she woke up that Blake had left. 

When Blake said she wouldn’t run, Adam immediately said “you will.” He knew she would run. He knew she would resort to that.

But Sun…he gave her the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t think she was running away because she was scared and guilty. He thought they were past all of that. He thought she ran off after the Fang! A hilarious misunderstanding on a surface level to children, maybe, but he thought she was going after the people who had hurt her so much and destroyed her school, her new life, killed people, and mutilated her best friend and partner. He didn’t think she was running away from the problem, Sun thought she was running towards the problem. He searched for her and followed her because he was worried about her. He played it off lightheartedly, but he honestly thought she was about to try and take down a criminal organization by herself. I don’t care how strong someone is, you can’t do that alone. Especially someone was haunted as Blake. So he looked for her, found her, followed her, and looked after her. Sun has always put her before himself. When he found out, oh that’s not what she’s doing, he instantly recognized what was going on, and internally was probably like “ah fuck I can’t let her do this again.” So? He decided to stay with her. She needed someone by her side. And Sun provided that comfort and company she needed. 

Sun…literally almost died for her. And you know what his response to that was? “I’d do it all again if it meant protecting you.” This boy genuinely cares about her. He really loves her. Whether you want to see it as platonic or romantic, Sun Wukong unconditionally, irrevocably loves Blake Belladonna.

And Blake…doesn’t know what that feels like. She’s afraid of seeing what happened with Adam happen again. She’s afraid of seeing what happened to Yang happen again. And you know damn well she never had the dedication and love that Sun gives her when she was with Adam in the White Fang.

Sun also learned a lot about his heritage this volume. He didn’t know much but he learned from Blake and he listened and was becoming more knowledgeable about how his people were oppressed. He didn’t get it before, but he’s beginning to get it now. He first reaction to finding out about the splinter group attempting a coup is to destroy the Fang, but Blake stands up and says “No, we’re taking it back.” And Sun…he’s gonna stay by her side for this. He’s going to understand why the White Fang needs to be reformed. He’s going to understand why the Fang is needed. But he’s not going to let their violence and hatred go on. He’s going to help Blake change the Fang.

He’s the hope and light that Blake has in the White Fang.

Also, take a look at his color scheme.

White and blue. Not only the opposite colors of Adam’s color scheme, but look familiar?

Yeah. The old White Fang’s flag.

Sun represents the light and hope Blake has for the White Fang. He represents such a bright future for Blake, for the White Fang, for Faunus, for himself.

When Blake is looking at the current Fang’s flag, the camera immediately pans to Blake’s face. She’s angry and pissed but this time she really won’t be running. It’s obvious we know who she was thinking of then. But when Blake is holding the old flag, the flag of hope and light, who do they pan to?

Sun.

And then they immediately pan to Blake. Her face melts into this smile.

That smile says that she’s ready to move on to a new chapter in her life, a chapter with Sun by her side, a chapter where she lets her friends in, where she doesn’t run away, where she vows to take back the Fang and turn it back into the civil rights group is always was.

And Sun was a catalyst for that! Notice at how different Sun and Adam are! Adam represents darkness and despair, Sun represents light and hope.

Their fight would literally symbolize despair vs hope. Regardless if Adam stabs Sun or Sun shoots off his mask, the end result is so symbolic and powerful. I don’t want Sun vs Adam because I want them to fight over Blake no fucking way. I want Sun vs Adam because of all of this. All of what I’ve written. Sun and Adam are polar opposites of each other and the fact that in Journey to the West, the monkey king (Sun) fights a demon bull king (Adam) is not just a coincidence lol. I don’t give crwby credit for much but I’d like to think that they’re not that bad of writers to have taken notice of this and not do anything with it.

And in the original story, Wukong doesn’t defeat the demon bull king by himself. Which is why I think the way this final battle is going to go is Sun and Adam are going to meet up, and they’re going to fight. But that’s not the end of the fight because Blake and Yang are going to join in. Essentially, Sunnybees vs Adam makes the most sense. 

I honestly think Sun will fight Adam, Blake will join in, Adam overpowers Blake and an already injured Sun will jump in front of Adam’s sword for her and at that point while the sword is lodged in Sun’s gut Yang would show up, see the image in front of her, charge at Adam crying and instead of being the victim she would punch through Adam’s sword or catch it in her joints and deliver nasty blows to him. Blake holds on to Sun and then Yang comes back and looks after him while Blake goes and delivers the finishing blows on Adam, at which point she will either kill Adam or Adam will have a melt down and a Disney Villain death. Point is, the beast is gonna kill Gaston and then the beast is gonna return to beauty’s limp body. I wouldn’t write Sun off as dead here, I’d honestly just have it allude to when beauty was crying over the beast’s body except the roles are reversed. He’d wake up, he’d get healed, happy ending yada yada yada.

But this is…how I would write it and I’ve learned that crwby and I have very different writing methods lmfao so I would love for this to happen and it would make sense but I can’t say I’d necessarily trust them to do something like this.

Anyway that’s my two cents. Take it how you will idc but this is why I desperately want Sun vs Adam.

[dreamingoffairys]

True Beauty (Chapter 2)

AO3: Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Yes, I know. What the fuck Ever? It’s been ages since you’ve posted anything! And wasn’t True Beauty just a oneshot? A oneshot you wrote like...a year ago?

Yes. I did write the original oneshot a year ago. Buuut then I got inspired and ran with it. I edited chapter one, by the way, so if you ever read the original oneshot, you should go click on the link above and re-read chapter one. The edits are super subtle, but important. And if you haven’t read chapter 1, you’re going to need to in order to understand this chapter.

(You can skip this author’s note if you want, but it’s pretty important explaining my intentions with this story. But I get it if you don’t wanna read all that, I’m rambly.)

I’ve had an idea in mind for a long time, and I decided to go for it. I've noticed there's a lot of stories, particularly in this fandom, that portray depression totally wrong. Now, it isn't necessarily the author's fault: depression is a hard thing to write and understand when you haven't experienced it yourself. That's part of why I've decided to write this story. I have depression and anxiety myself, and not only is this story a great coping method, it's also a way to show people who may not fully understand mental illness what it's like being in our heads. I also hope to portray how society treats mentally ill people: especially schools. I'm trying to show the signs you can look out for, how to help a mentally ill person, and how sometimes, people truly are oblivious.

Of course, this means this story is going to be a difficult read at times. The first scene in this chapter could be potentially very triggering, and perhaps there will be more scenes like this, or even more graphic scenes. I'm not going to sugarcoat anything. Things may not have gotten this bad for me, but I've seen it happen to many close to me. Too much media romanticizes mental illness, thinks that a relationship can cure it. News flash: people in relationships may be happier, but nothing can magically cure mental illness. It takes time, a lot of hard work, and potentially medication.

In summary, I'm trying to portray this as realistic as possible. This is a very extreme case, so not everyone who is mentally ill will act like Rogue does, but I figured after a chapter like the first, Rogue's situation is a difficult one. His actions also add to the common misconceptions that depressed people are just lazy or bad students.

I am not perfect in any means, there will likely be some inaccuracies or in some spots it'll be a bit dramatic. But that's to be expected, as no author can write something completely and totally flawless, no matter how informed they are.

Without further ado, Chapter Two of True Beauty: You're Proud, but I'm Getting Nowhere. I hope you enjoy.

WARNING: SELF HARM. SKIP THE FIRST SCENE IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A leaky faucet in a bathroom illuminated only by the sliver of moonlight spills icy cold onto pale skin, scratched like fragile porcelain. The clear purity is disrupted by crimson, the heat disrupting the flow of liquid cold, a dance of fire and ice. Only a hiss of recognition and the dripping of water from rusted pipes whispers through the silence of the night, so late that it was early, a cold dark silence that engulfs those inside it with an almost protective embrace.

A pure white sheet descends on stained silver, staining red until the sharp edge shines in the moonlight, reflecting the eyes of its owner, dark as the thick liquid that flows down his skin. The sheet falls into the still water encased in porcelain, only to be taken away in a swirling pattern, sucked out of sight with a single flush.

The deadly sharpness that glimmers with a strangely appealing beauty is hidden away, concealed by a zipper, then shoved behind piles of meaningless things humans insisted on pampering themselves with. Out of sight, out of mind...and yet, his fingers felt empty without it, twitching in the need to retrieve it again, to feel the weight of guilt and release in his palms, to feel it's sharpened edge bring him to actually  know  pain instead of remembering it.

As he slips out behind the closed door, minding the creaking hinge, the numbness is back, starting at his fingertips and spreading throughout his blood, not hot, not cold, not anything.

As his head hits the sunken, tear stained pillow, his fingers trace the fresh lines that pattern his skin, almost artistic against the paleness of his underarms, a little splash of color to give him  something  to look at, to remind himself he is still moving, that he can feel the slightest bit of something.

His battle scars. For the first time in the dead of night, the corner of his mouth twitches as if to smile. It did not come, only a single tear, but as he pulls black fabric over the visual pain, he does not feel shame, only exhaustion from today’s fight, the enemy he could not defeat. Tomorrow was a new fight, and he would be ready with words of steel and eyes of resolute determination. Tomorrow...is a new chance for renewal.

The day breaks and Sting Eucliffe is awake the moment the sun rises above the horizon, blue eyes wide and body filled with restless energy. He had a reason to dress up today, and a reason to be excited for school, which is a rarity saved for field trips and movie days, which happened maybe twice a semester.

He had a boyfriend.  It was something hard to believe or process, for their school is 97% straight and all of the gay guys are taken. Not only was he in a relationship now, but it was with Rogue. Rogue, whom he’d been crushing on since he’d found out his sexuality, although sometimes it seemed it was even before that. Rogue, who crinkles up his nose when he laughs, whose eyes smile when he scolds you for silly little things, whose laugh could make anyone’s little gay heart melt.

“Sting!” his mother calls from upstairs. “Are you dressed? Normally you’re down by now!”

Sting blinks rapidly and slowly comes to the realization that he’s been dazedly lying on the floor in his boxers daydreaming of Rogue for fifteen minutes. “Fuck whyyyy?!” he whines, cursing his sappy brain and climbing up off the carpet. “Coming Mum!”

He throws on a pink t-shirt, white shorts, his converse, and slides two hair-clips into his hair. By “dress-up” he simply meant wear clothes that showed himself off, like the tightness of this shirt and pants, and then the hair clips for a bit of a cute flare. He skips down the stairs and screeches into the kitchen, taking the wheat toast with butter and cinnamon sugar from his mother’s hands. “Thanks Mum!” he beams.

She chuckles happily as he devours it down, moving to move her husband’s dishes into the sink. “You’re awfully cheerful today.” She smiles at the hairclips, adding, “And you’re dressed all cute… Hmm…” She puts on a fake pondering expression. “Could it be that my little boy is trying to...impress someone?”

“Oho, no need, my dear mother,” Sting grins, setting his plate into the sink. “Already impressed ‘im.”

She laughs, ruffling his hair, to which he loudly protests. “I should've known. I knew you could do it. You two have been so close for so long it was only a matter of time…”

“Yeah, well, I really-wait, how did you know it was Rogue?”

Mrs. Eucliffe laughs joyously. “I just said anyone could’ve seen it coming, didn't I?”

���True,” Sting shrugs, checking the clock on the oven. “Time for me to head out. I hope I can catch Rogue so he doesn’t have to walk alone.”

“You do that, sweetheart,” his mother smiles warmly. “Your father wanted me to tell you to have a good day today and good luck on your test!”

Sting freezes, eyes widening. “Test? Oh  shit .” He bolts out of the house as fast as he can, trying not to show his desperation. His feet hit the sidewalk as he moves in the direction of the High School. He sees a familiar figure slightly up the street from him, shoulders hunched in that same gray sweatshirt as always.

Sting runs up behind him, throwing an arm around him and placing a big, sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Rogue~!” he says cheerfully.

Rogue turns his head sharply, looking over at Sting with wide eyes. “O-Oh, hi.” He blushes shyly, eyes downcast out of embarrassment.

“Hi beautiful,” Sting flirts, kissing Rogue’s cheek again and watching the red flood his cheeks. “How are you this morning?”

“Not good…” Rogue mumbles, and Sting’s face falls. “This is kinda cheesy but...it's better now that you're here with me.”

“I love cheesy,” Sting smiles, brushing Rogue’s hair from his eyes. “I am the  definition  of cheesy, after all.”

“You're the definition of  dork is what you are,” Rogue replies softly, and Sting giggles in response. They were nearing the campus now, and Sting takes Rogue’s hand in his and swings their joined fingers.

A rough voice suddenly sounds in their ears as a group of three other teenagers approaches them. “Hey there, Cheney,” one of them sneers.

Rogue freezes up beside Sting, hands shaking slightly. Sting instantly senses trouble. His eyes narrow as he shoots the trio his scariest glare, jaw set and face turned in a fierce scowl.

The boy gulps. “Wh-Whoa, not trying to start something or anything...just sayin’ hi to a classmate.” The three of them quickly rush off, leaving the couple alone on the sidewalk.

Rogue turns to look at Sting in amazement. “How did you do that…?”

“My scariest glare,” Sting throws an arm around Rogue’s shoulder and continues to walk with him towards the front of the school. “But it also was a little bit of the secret art of ‘Touch My Boyfriend and I’ll Fuck You Up’, which emits a magical aura of fear-”

“Shut up!” Rogue laughs, elbowing Sting in the ribs. Sting’s heart flutters, because like always, Rogue looked beautiful blushing and laughing. There is relief on his features not there before, the pressure those three boys put upon him lifted from his burdened shoulders.

Sting smiles softly, “Don’t you worry, Rogue. I’ve got you.” He squeezes Rogue’s hand tightly. “No matter what happens, I’ve got your back.”

Rogue smiles thinly, “You sure you want to have that job…?” He looks down at his feet, shoes shuffling against the pavement. “You’ve basically just signed yourself up for a world of hurt.”

“I know,” Sting says boldly, staring straight forward. The clear morning sky felt refreshing both on his lungs and his eyes. “I’m prepared to do pretty much anything to get you smiling like that again. I miss it. You look beautiful.”

Rogue flushes again, “Would you stop? We just started dating and you’re already pouring it on like it’s been a year.”

Sting shrugs, “I mean...it almost has been many.”

“Oh, shut up.” Rogue bares the hint of a smile. “You were too cowardly to say anything.”

As they approach the school together, Sting can feel eyes on them, as well as whispers. Instead of shying away, Sting simply stands taller and prouder as if to say:  hell yeah, that’s my boyfriend. I bet you’re jealous .

“I’ll walk you to your first class, okay?” Sting pecks Rogue’s cheek softly, then squeezes his hand.

“Are you showing off right now?” Rogue asks, raising an eyebrow. “I know you can see the people staring.”

“Sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?” Sting looks genuinely concerned, stopping for a moment to look into his eyes.

Rogue looks away shyly, “You know I don’t like people staring at me…”

“I’m sorry,” Sting mumbles, dropping his hand. “I’m excited, that’s all…”

“I know,” Rogue takes Sting’s hand again. “This is fine...let’s just keep walking…”

Sting smiles and squeezes his hand, then starts walking towards Rogue’s class. Rogue leans on Sting slightly, breathing uneasy, eyes drooping. Sting watches Rogue’s expression, seeing the exhaustion written all over his face, both physical and emotional. It must’ve been another bad night… Sting bites his lip, feeling awful and wishing he could’ve helped. I should ask to stay the night again soon...hold him all night so he feels safe…

The bell rings loudly, snapping the couple out of their daze. Sting awkwardly turns to Rogue, “Well uh...yeah. I’ll seeya later...bye…”

To Sting’s surprise, Rogue takes the riskier move. “I love you.”

Sting blushes brightly, ducking his head slightly, “I love you too, Rogue…” His hand hesitates, fingers brushing against Rogue’s palm as he slowly pulls away and walks down the hall alone.

Rogue sat silently in his desk, pencil tapping against his hand to try and calm his nerves. Usually, he would listen to music to calm himself down, but this teacher was rather strict and didn’t allow it. It caused mild turmoil in him, stuck in a weird limbo of trying to find some inner peace on his own while also longing for the rush of sound to block out the foreboding silence.

Rogue wants to smile, but his mind is too full of anxieties to allow that. But he doesn’t let it win today, not yet, at least. Rogue closes his eyes and remembers Sting’s flustered reaction to those powerful three words:  I love you . Rogue said them without even a moment’s hesitation, heart certain and strong. Scared of everything else in his life, this was the one thing Rogue would not shy away from.

Sting meant everything to him. Rogue wanted Sting to know that, he wanted him to see how much love his broken heart could hold. It was bursting at the seams where it had been stitched, ripped long ago by people who did not take care to cherish it. But in this case, Rogue didn’t mind. The warmth of love, like thick blood, flowed like power into his veins, like gasoline finally being pumped into an old, worn down machine. Now all they needed was some happiness to oil the rusted gears.

Easier said than done , Rogue thinks to himself, fidgeting with the sleeve of his favorite sweatshirt, trying to conceal any trace of the mess of bandages stuck to his scarred skin.

The class drags on and on, the class working in almost eerie silence on their worksheets, the only sound besides the click of calculators and the scritch scratch of pencils being a soft  tick...tock...tick...tock . That sound was the only thing keeping Rogue tethered to reality, an echoing sound that resonated in his mind, helping him slow the agitated heartbeat within his chest that would not cease.

His fingers twitched. His eyes were unfocused and empty. His breathing was uneven and shallow. He wanted his music. He needed his music. He needed an escape.

A loud gasp escapes his lips at the sound of someone dropping a pencil, breaking the silence. Rogue sits bolt upright in his seat, loudly dropping his own pencil against the desk. It felt like all eyes were on him when he stood up, legs weak and unable to support his weight, hands and fingers twitching and shaking, eyes darting everywhere, trying to avoid looking at anyone’s face. I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here now.

Mrs. Johanson frowns, standing up and peering over the rim of her glasses. “Is there a problem, Mr. Cheney?”

Something she said made it worse. Rogue wasn’t sure if it was the words, the tone of voice, or the fact she was drawing more and more attention to him, the silence breaking down into pieces, with him the sole source of the chaos.

Rogue tries to speak, tries to stammer out an excuse concerning the bathroom or feeling sick. But the only sound that comes out is a strangled half-sob, and before he knows what is happening, his fingers are hooking around his backpack, and he bolts out the door.

“MR. CHENEY! GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!”

Rogue knows he should’ve left his backpack: now she’d think he was just skipping class for a joyride. But he needed his music...he was not going to leave it behind. Still running, Rogue’s left hand scrambles around in his backpack until his fingers coil around the tangled mess of black wires, fishing out his earbuds from the mess of paper and old wrappers. Dragged out with them, his phone nearly drops to the trash-littered cement below.

Mrs. Johnason stopped chasing him. Rogue would be relieved, but he knows this school too well to be fooled by that. She called the hall patrol, perhaps the on-campus police officer. This wouldn’t be the first time. He had been suspected of drugs once before, because of his weird, spastic freakouts and spacy behavior. But they had found nothing but piles and piles of crumpled pieces of paper, covered in frantic handwriting grouped into incoherent scribbles. Look all they like, but they would never find the source of Rogue’s supposed insanity.

The chaos is all in his head, after all.

Rogue finds himself outside of the art classrooms, one of the quietest, most isolated places in the entire school. There was an old supply shed out of use now, supposed to be locked tight with a coded lock impossible to crack. But desperation had overtaken Rogue one day, and he’d fumbled with the lock until he found the code just by chance. It was one of the few miracles that kept him alive.

Quickly inputting the code now embedded in his mind, 7246 , he pushes open the old, creaky door, and steps inside. The shed looks the same as always: dark with only a single stream of light flowing through the small window near the roof. Cans of old paint, tubs of broken crayons, buckets of painted rocks and cracked busts...the room provides a surprising amount of comfort.

Jamming the earbuds into his ears and turning on his headspace playlist, he sits down amongst the pencil shavings and paint chips and closes his eyes, back hitting the old wooden wall behind him. He didn’t care how long he was here now, didn’t care if they called home to report his absence, didn’t care if people panicked and called the police. They would never find him here, he was sure of it. He was simply a shadow on the wall, melting into the darkness effortlessly. They thought this shed hadn’t been opened in years, and it was their ignorance, that for once, kept him safe.

Rogue breathes in slowly, smelling wood and old paint. He finds it soothing, in a way, to know that creativity used to be born here, amongst the wood shavings and dim sunlight.

Rogue feels a bit of sweat on his brow, the warm, stuffy surroundings catching up with him. Nervously he removes the sweatshirt he always wore, trembling slightly at the sight of the revealed bandages plastered to his underarms. Biting his lip, he reminds himself he is alone here, alone and safe from judgemental, preying eyes.

Usually, Rogue sets an alarm so that he could go to his next class, but today is not one of those days. Instead, he shuts his eyes and lets himself slip into a meditative state, trying to think of nothing as music washes over him and drowns out all of the shit in his mind.

Sting hears whispers and rumors bouncing from mouth to mouth all throughout the hallways. Something about it felt wrong, far too familiar. Normally, Sting only butts into gossip if it was something that interested him (which was not very often: in his point of view, the lives of teenage girls are boring as hell) but there was something about this that felt important.

“Yeah, apparently he just jumped out of his seat, grabbed his backpack, and bolted,” a girl with pink lipstick on smirking lips says to her friend.

“Maybe he really is on drugs,” laughs the friend, rolling her brown eyes. “I mean, I know the school searched him and found nothing, but maybe he does ‘em before he gets to school, then sneaks out at lunch to a dealer somewhere down the street.”

The usual drug rumors did not spike Sting’s interest. He turns away, about to head towards his locker, when a single word stops him in his tracks.

“Yeah, what an emo freak.”

Sting whirls around immediately, mind flashing back to the night before. “- the bullies pull me behind the school and call me a faggot and beat me for being the worthless trashy gay emo piece of shit that I am-!”

Sting immediately gets in their faces, preparing to intimidate and defend, “Who are you talking about?!”

One of the girls yelps and jumps back, but the one with pink lipstick smiles flirtatiously at him. Sting controls the urge to roll his eyes.  Great, another girl fishing for what she knows isn’t there.

“Who? Oh, just that weirdass guy in my first period who’s probably on drugs.”

Sting grits his teeth, his hands curling into fists at his side. This girl is pushing all my buttons...   “What’s his name?”

“Rogue Cheney,” she replied easily. “I thought you’d know that by now, considering half the school’s in a bu-”

Sting growls and grabs the front of her shirt, “Shut the fuck up! Rogue’s not on fucking drugs, okay?! I know this for a fact! Ever consider that your words are what’s causing all this shit?”

She snorts loudly, not looking intimidated in the slightest. “Oh Sting, baby, let me guess.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Sting growls, eyes narrowing even more.

“You’re gay for him, aren’t you?” she laughs, acting like this is some sick joke, like she’s trying to insult him. “You could do so much better than trash like th-”

Sting can’t help himself, losing it immediately and punching her straight on the jaw. “MAYBE I FUCKING AM! SO SHUT IT!”

Multiple people scream, stepping back from the scene with wide eyes. A few others whip out their cellphones and start recording. The girl Sting hits falls to the ground, blood streaming out of her split lip, eyes wide in rage.

“YOU BASTARD!” she screams, getting to her feet, trying to wipe the blood off of her face. She springs at him, trying to use her nails to scrape up his face, but he grabs her by the wrist and shoves her back to the ground.

“Don’t you DARE touch me!” Sting shouts, trying to stop the tears from falling.  No one fucking understands...all of these people...they’re just making it worse.  Addressing the crowd, he shouts, “If any of you wanna end up just like her, go ahead, keep talking shit!”

Eyes widen all around the hallway, holding their phones up and continuing to get it all on record. Sting hears shouting and the sound of teachers and hall monitors running towards the scene.

After that, everything is a blur. Dragged to the principal’s office, they sit Sting in a chair in front of the principal’s desk and leave him there. Sting looks down at the dried blood on his fist, cursing his own lack of impulse control. He used to get in trouble all the time before high school for fighting, and he’d been doing so much better since he arrived here. But that bitch’s words had brought him back, and he’d been unable to help himself from shutting her up like many others before her.

Principal Poher peers over his desk at Sting, sighing softly. “Sting Eucliffe...I thought you’d fixed this.”

“So had I,” Sting says softly. He looks up at the principal straight in the eyes. “But I don’t regret it, Sir.”

Poher groans. “Sting, you need to learn that punching people is not the way to solve problems.”

“They did the one thing I can never accept...” Sting does not break eye contact. “Anyone who hurts Rogue deserves it.”

Sting watches as the principal sighs again heavily, leaning back in his chair and looking highly disappointed. “Rogue breaks a lot of school rules as well, Sting. I’m not surprised the school’s talking about him.”

“They bully him,” Sting grits his teeth, “they bully him like we’re back in middle school! It’s immature, rude, and if they would shut their damn mouths then maybe Rogue could actually handle being in class!”

Poher’s expression darkens. “Sting. That is Rogue’s business, not yours. If he’s having a problem, he needs to come talk to us himself.”

“Am I not allowed to defend my best friend? My boyfriend?!” Sting snaps back, anger rising in his chest. “All the anti-bullying stuff around this school says to not be a bystander, to stick up for those in trouble! But once I do that,   I  get in trouble, and nothing changes!”

“What we mean by that is to come tell an authority.” The principal starts filling out a form, not looking at Sting, having given up.

“You just said he has to come tell you himself!” Sting shouts, standing up and shaking angrily.

“Sit down, Sting!” Poher commands, and Sting falls back into his seat with venom in his eyes. Clutching the seat’s armrests with both hands, Sting tries to contain his anger and stop the shaking. “Sting, please listen to me.” Poher’s eyes are fixed upon the boy’s face, and Sting refuses to break eye contact, not backing down. “If someone was bullying Rogue to his face, if someone was physically hurting him, and you came to me with names and evidence, we would put a stop to it. Rogue has not been seen since his little stunt this morning-”

“Wait, what?!” Sting cries, sitting up straighter in the chair. “Rogue’s missing?!”

The principal groans softly, “I shouldn’t have said that. But yes, Rogue is currently missing.”

Sting jumps out of his chair and heads for the door, “I’ve got to find him, he could be in trouble-!” Sting grabs the door and tries to open it, only to realize it’s locked. “Dammit!”

“Sting.” Poher’s voice is surprisingly calm. “You cannot go around punching people anymore, unless it is self-defense. If someone is bullying Rogue, have him come to me. It’s just difficult to take your side of the story as pure fact when you are this riled up and Rogue is missing, breaking school rules. If you both come in later this week, I will have a talk with you.”

Sting hangs his head, shaking violently. “P-Please let me go look for Rogue...likely, he doesn’t want to be found...a-and when he doesn’t want to be found, n-no one’s gonna be able to find him but me...I-I’m the only person he trusts...please…”

Poher sighs softly. “I’m sorry, Sting.” He pushes the form out in front of him. “I’m afraid we have to suspend you for two days for fighting. Stay here, and I’ll call your mom.”

“N-No!” Sting tugs on the door again. “Y-You have to let me out, R-Rogue could be in danger-”

“We have people looking for him now,” the principal says slowly. “I’m calling your mother, Sting. Please sit down and stay as calm as you can. Rogue is going to be alright.”

Sting sinks back into the chair, holding back angry tears. Suspended? Rogue’s going to be alone at school for two days… That is, unless he gets suspended too…

“C-Can I text him…?” Sting whispers, but Poher has already picked up the phone to call Sting’s mother. Biting down on his lip hard, Sting sinks into himself and picks at the dried blood caked onto his fist. Why do all of his attempts to help just make everything worse? Rogue was in a bad place, he couldn’t come to the office himself, he couldn’t tell anyone about the pain he had, about the struggle going on inside his mind. They were basically asking Rogue to do the impossible. People this far gone would never show it, never admit it. They would only hide it inside, hide it until someone they trusted pushed just a bit, and then they’d break into pieces in their hands.

Drowning out the world, Sting buries his face into his hands and tries not to cry. I’m sorry, Rogue...