MAJOR Trigger Warning: for self-harm, attempted suicide, blood, and point-of-view mental illness. This fic is explicit, intense, and immersive. Be VERY careful if self-harm is a trigger for you.
A/N: I was never planning to post this. I wrote it in 2017 when things were not going well. Months later, I read Ch25 of SplendidlyImperfect's Crash & Burn, and a character says "I haven't hurt myself in thirteen days." I decided to dig this out. Then I continued waffling for months, and now I'm finally posting.
It's been 1 year and 6 days since I last self-harmed. ^^
For some reason, I made Frosch female. Nonbinary Rogue uses they/them.
Look Like Death
Rogue stared at the picture Frosch drew for them with tears streaking down their cheeks. It was of frogs, predictably, green and red ones around a pond—green for her fur and red for Rogue's eyes. All the things Frosch loved, in one picture. Maybe that was why Rogue was crying. It was so her.
It was hard to look at something so full of life and affection. Beauty reminded them how useless they were. They weren't worth this.
Shaking took over Rogue's body, lightheadedness making them sway until they crawled from their chair onto the floor. Quietly, so they wouldn't wake Sting. It was well before dawn, Rogue up early with not enough sleep like usual, while Sting and the Exceeds slept in a cuddly pile.
Seeing them all lumped together had made Rogue smile when they got up. So perfect when Rogue wasn't there to wake them with restless nightmares.
Rogue was glad how well those three got on. When Rogue receded into theirself, or messed up, or took off on a mission alone, the family was okay. Things were still balanced, whether Rogue was there or not.
You're unnecessary.
Rogue's gut fluttered, like a bird that couldn't land.
It scared them how much they wanted to cease existing. The healthier part of them longed to run to Sting and tell him everything, and let Sting bathe them in words and light… Yet while comfort felt good, it didn't fix things. As soon as Rogue was by themself again, it all came back. How much life sucked, how they sucked, how it would never get better.
No matter how much they longed for Sting, they had no right to disturb his rest. They burdened him enough already.
The only thing Rogue was good at was violence. Once, they'd actually been staring at Sting when the thought popped into their head that they merely needed to apply pressure to a couple key points to snuff out the life beating in his throat. They'd hidden in the toilets and cried for hours. What kind of person imagined how to kill their boyfriend?
If they ever hurt Sting, they would definitely kill themself.
Crouching with their knees against their chest, Rogue pulled into a tight ball. A powerful wave of panic and yearning hit them. They were feeling the desire to hurt, disappear, and they needed Sting. It was so self-centered to keep inflicting themself on Sting, but he was the only person who could calm them.
They couldn't quiet their panting now. Maybe they didn't want to be quiet. They were scared, wanted someone to keep them from doing what they desperately wanted to do to themself.
Rogue wiped their cheeks. They couldn't wake him looking tear-streaked and raw: Sting would panic. This wasn't an emergency—Rogue didn't need anything, just wanted Sting's arms around them.
When they managed to stop their crying, they splashed cold water on their face and slipped to the bedroom.
In the doorway, they watched Sting exhale long, comforting breaths. Merely watching calmed Rogue down. See? They didn't need to go in there and disrupt everything: they didn't need to make things about themself.
They could be selfless and let Sting sleep like he deserved.
Sting gave everything he had to his toxic partner, putting up with Rogue and telling them he loved them and every other thing they needed to hear. Loving them all the time, and Rogue never deserved it, but Sting never stopped. Even though he should've long ago. Rogue ought to do better.
Tears pressed against their eyes again. Swallowing wasn't making it go away. Had to make it go away before they woke Sting...
Two colorful mounds curled against Sting's back, the Exceeds' heartbeats quicker than the human's. They'd taken over Rogue's side of the bed. Since Rogue often rose first, the cats would move to their residual heat.
Clamping a hand over their mouth, Rogue stifled a gasp of emotion. This was all they could offer: body heat and their absence. Everyone was better off without them.
Frosch and Lector probably wouldn't even miss their morning warmth if Rogue died.
Rogue breathed in through their nose. They refused to break down.
When they were finally calm again, Rogue went to Sting's side of the bed. Crouching, they peered into Sting's face, searching over the serene expression and soft-parted lips. Loving him so inexpressibly much.
"S-Sting," they whispered.
"Mmm?" Sting's eyes blinked open, wandering to focus on Rogue. "Uhszup?"
Rogue chewed their lip. The truth sounded stupid. Why were they doing this?
"Rogue?" Sting pushed onto an elbow. "Is everything okay?"
"I n-need…"
Rogue broke off.
After half a moment, Sting pulled Rogue to his chest. It was an awkward position, Rogue kneeling against the side of the mattress, but Rogue could only think about Sting's body pressed steadily to theirs.
Like it was possible they could be loved.
When the sob burst out of them, they tried to muffle it against Sting's skin, but more sobs lined up, one after another. They slammed through Rogue, who shuddered from the force of them, like earth struck over and over by lightning.
"Rogue. Rogue," Sting called, lips against Rogue's forehead. "Shh, it's okay. It's alright."
Sleepy, confused noises drifted from Sting's back.
"Rogue?" Frosch's face appeared over Sting's side, transformed with anxiety. "Did you get a hurt?"
"N-No," Rogue said. "It's not an outside hurt."
"Is it inside?" she asked, leaning further over Sting's body.
"It's okay, Frosch." Their attempted smile was a terrible imitation. "Go back to sleep."
Sting felt Frosch pull away and curl up again at his back, trembling. She was wretched every time she saw Rogue like this. Against Sting's shoulder blade, Lector muttered comfort: It's okay. Rogue says they're okay. They've got Sting.
Rogue would not be okay.
Shifting away from the cats, Sting sat up in order to bring Rogue closer, Rogue still crouched by the bed, weeping against Sting's stomach. As he rubbed Rogue's back and smoothed their hair, Sting woke up more, trying not to be an alarmist, telling himself he didn't know why Rogue was crying. But he had a good idea.
"Want to tell me what happened?"
Shaking their head, Rogue muttered, "Not important."
Sting sighed. "Can I get you anything?"
"Just a h-hug."
Rogue sounded plaintive. Sting's stomach clenched.
Very carefully he shifted to get a view of Rogue's wrists. He couldn't smell blood, but Rogue had gotten very good at covering it up—to 'spare' Sting, but to Sting it was a slap in the face. Like they didn't trust him.
But there were no marks on Rogue's arms today.
"How long have you been up?" Sting asked.
"A while."
Long enough to consider hurting yourself? he wanted to ask.
Still, they were in his arms now. Waking up to Rogue always held joy for him, even with Rogue falling apart. When Sting awoke to an empty bed, he sometimes panicked: there had been several close calls with Rogue. In the back of his mind always lingered the fear that they would break their promise to him one day.
The year previous, Sting had shouted himself—and Rogue—awake from a nightmare that would repeat many times in the coming weeks. Rogue's arms were around him instantly, rocking back and forth.
A sob burst out of Sting's chest. It'd been so real. So horrifying.
"Shh. Sting." As Rogue's voice lilted over his name, they put their face against Sting's, his tears wetting their cheek. It was good Lector and Frosch weren't in the bed tonight.
"Rogue," he whispered, trembling, "please tell me this is real."
"It's real."
Crying took over. He let it fall out, emptying the ache and his weariness and fear.
"What happened?" Rogue asked when Sting was articulate again.
"I had a dream," Sting whispered, "that you killed yourself."
Rogue inhaled sharply.
"Y-You were bleeding, and I tried to stop it but you wouldn't let me, and—and then your heart stopped beating—"
"It wasn't real." They kissed his temple, cutting off his panic. "I'm right here. I wouldn't do that to you."
"Except you have."
When Sting grabbed for their wrist, they evaded him. "That's different."
"It's not!"
"It wasn't because of you," they said, gaze steady. "It's never because of you, Sting. Alright? And this…it wasn't to kill myself; it was controlled."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"Sting!" Rogue's shout startled him to stillness. "I'm here. You haven't lost me. There's no reason to be afraid."
With a long exhale, Sting leaned his head against their collarbone. "Promise me you won't try to kill yourself."
"Sting," they chided.
"Promise."
They bit their lip.
"Why can't you promise?" he demanded.
Rogue tried to roll their eyes, but the tension in their body was tangible, every muscle hard. As Rogue continued to hold out, white anger flashed in Sting's head.
"You don't want to die, right?" he spat. "Right now, do you want to die?"
"No."
"Then promise."
They closed their eyes. Took a breath.
"I give you my word that I'll…try."
Relaxing, Sting let the partial oath pass. Stubborn, beautiful Rogue was in his arms and did not want to die today.
That night played on repeat in Sting's mind sometimes. Especially six months ago, when he'd caught Rogue with a knife in their hand. There had been many more nightmares, and waking to Rogue holding him and whispering comfort he could never quite believe.
Times like this, when Rogue came to him for help, were reassuring.
He buried his face in Rogue's hair and held them until Rogue's tears dried up.
"Come to bed," he said, scooting Frosch and Lector's sleeping forms over. "Join me."
Cautious, they crawled in next to him and he pulled them into a hug again. Rogue was so tense.
"You look tired. Just rest for a while."
"I don't need it," they said stubbornly.
"I'll wake you if anything happens. Promise."
If you thrash or cry out. I'll be here. Sting would always be here. For as long as they let him.
Rogue shifted forward until their breath ghosted over Sting's bare chest.
With clear intent, Sting moved in slowly and kissed them. For a moment, Rogue's lips latched onto his, holding him there in the kiss, keeping him where they shared light and joy and sorrow, the intimate touch of two people who cared about each other. When Rogue's fingers caressed Sting's cheek, the world became nothing but the two of them, wrapped up together where they could watch out for each other and keep each other safe.
When the kiss ended, Rogue fell quickly asleep.
Rogue was hiding.
The basement-level toilets were the best place for privacy at the guild. It was still the guild: where lots of people were always about and Rogue always felt slightly sick—too many smells, too much sound, too many demands and people and over-stimulating things. Too much potential to screw up. But almost nobody came down here, and it was quiet.
The toilets had a solid lock, too.
Which was good, because Rogue's blood was flowing into the sink, the ribbon of red silk filling their brain with static.
Stumbling, Rogue grabbed the porcelain lip. They didn't realize how slowly it would take. Still, there was euphoria because…this was it. They'd finally done it.
Sound was dimming, like going underwater.
Rogue fell before they knew they were falling, hitting their head on the way down. They didn't remember impacting the floor, but they mustered their energy and pushed into a ball with their back against the wall. It was a lot harder than it should have been.
A tear slid down Rogue's cheek. They hadn't said goodbye—knew Sting would know something was up. Consequently, they were going into this alone; what if it hurt? What if they were stuck in this dizzy, gasping place for hours?
They missed Sting.
When they tilted their arms and made red patterns drip across their skin, they realized they were making a mess on the floor. I'm sorry, love.
Fuck.
"—I could've sworn Rogue already did it. They're here first every morning, so they usually take care of that stuff."
As if Rogue conjured him, Sting's voice emerged across the basement. Rogue smiled, wishing a life of happiness on the one person who had tried to love them.
"They might not have come to the guild today," Sting went on. "I haven't seen them."
There was a jingle: Sting's keys to the various doors of the guild, including the cabinet with the expensive liquor, which resided down here away from the brawling.
Rogue listened to the everyday interchange with a smile. Sting was too good for them: he was larger than life, made of charm and big things, and he was charmingly unaware of it.
There was a scratching at the door, like someone trying to get in. Sorry, Rogue thought, it's occupied.
"Sorry." Sting was still talking, laughing a little. "I didn't sleep well. Hold on."
When the scrape of a key reverberated through the bathroom, adrenaline shot through Rogue's body.
They were coming in here.
Shitshitshit… They had no time, looking for somewhere to hide, too dizzy to move.
Their gashes were in full view when the door swung open a second later.
"Got it," Sting chuckled, and then he looked.
Sting stuttered out a scream. He took a step back, glancing over his shoulder before fixing his eyes on Rogue again: wide, horrified. He was holding the door to keep others from seeing, but as Sting hyperventilated, someone tugged it from him.
"Ohmygod," Sting yelled. "Ohmygod! Help! Yukino! No—wait— Fuck! Ohmygod!"
As the door was pulled from Sting's grasp, Yukino appeared beside him. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she snapped into motion.
Yukino shouted things, rushing forward and touching Rogue gingerly, but the only thing Rogue could focus on was Sting. Sting crumpling in the doorway, dissolving into ugly, pained shrieks, hands over his mouth. When Sting shivered hard, someone wrapped their arm around him, and Rogue felt a flare of jealousy, because that should be Rogue's job…but by the look in Sting's eye, they knew they had lost that right. They had lost everything.
Betrayal on Sting's face said so.
Rogue hadn't been crying before—they didn't think—but now they were sobbing. They'd betrayed Sting. He didn't want them anymore. This was why they needed to die.
Registering Yukino touching their wrists, Rogue tried to rip away from her, frantic. She must not stop this. If Rogue disappeared, Sting would stop crying.
But Yukino overpowered them. That shouldn't happen; they knew for certain they were stronger than she was.
When black closed around their vision, they relaxed into Yukino's grip.
It was over now. They wouldn't have to feel.
I love you, Sting. You'll never know how much I love you.
Frosch was crying and Lector couldn't get her to calm down. All she did these days was cry. He curled around her on Rogue's pillow. Nothing he did could change anything.
Sting hadn't come home again. Lector made enough dinner for three, despite knowing. Sting didn't come home anymore.
This afternoon, after Sting stayed shut in his office all day again, Lector had finally gone behind his back. He needed someone stronger than Sting, which meant Minerva. She'd taken Yukino on a job to get Yukino's mind off things, so he called them on the lacrima.
After he explained, Yukino's face filled the orb.
"Call this number," she said. "Tell Sting to talk to them. He needs someone to talk to."
"We're coming home," Minerva added, leaning into view on the lacrima. "We'll be there tomorrow. If anything happens before then, get Orga and Rufus."
"They haven't been in since before," Lector said. "They don't even know."
"Ah, shit. They're at home: it was their anniversary. But they've had a week. This is important."
The door opened behind him and Lector didn't have to look to know it was Frosch. Back from visiting Rogue.
"I have to go."
"Thank you for calling us, Lector."
When he turned around, Frosch was standing there with tears on her face.
"Flower," she said, holding out a white blossom. "Rogue gave me a flower."
Then she started bawling.
"Where's Sting?" she sniffled. "Why aren't Rogue and Sting taking care of each other?"
Rogue quivered in their chair, full of restless energy. Sting was visiting this afternoon. It was his sixth visit: almost three weeks had passed, and they only got to see each other five times. The infrequency was partially due to Rogue being unconscious from blood loss, then medicinally kept out of it. Days of being weak and only semi-present.
But some of the scarcity was because Sting needed a break to get his own mind in a healthy place.
They caught themself rubbing their forearms and stopped. Their wrists were almost healed, still in casts so they couldn't scratch them open again.
Sting was still timid with them. Rogue didn't have the guts to ask where their relationship stood. Not when Sting was so withdrawn. Today, Rogue was going to ask him if they were still together.
Growing anxious, they stared down at the paper in their lap.
Their feel-y assignment today was to make a list of the five people they saw most and write two activities they could do with each. It was a way of strategizing to combat their loneliness.
They'd just finished the third name on their list: Lector. They'd come up with cooking (the one passion they and Lector shared, and Sting and Frosch did not) and finding Frosch presents. Rogue gave Frosch small gifts on a regular basis and knew Lector would love to help.
Their gut twinged at the idea of doing so many things with other people.
Rogue hadn't known until the last few weeks that there was a name for this: social anxiety. When the therapist gave them the label, it sounded like a sentence. But apparently it was normal, improvable, and not something to feel guilty about.
When the time of Sting's visit arrived, Rogue waited in the shade of a large pillar. They'd dressed as nicely as they could without looking like they tried, but despite this, they were sweating and fidgety.
The buzzing in your stomach is just a feeling. It's okay to feel feelings, the therapist had said. Feelings just want to be acknowledged.
When they saw Sting, their breath whooshed out of them.
He looked amazing. That long, easy stride, the blue eyes catching the light, the haphazard pile of curls. Rogue wanted to simultaneously kiss his face and hide.
They could do this. They could face their beloved, whom they betrayed, and hear the verdict.
Sting headed over with his hands in his pockets. "Hey."
"Hey."
They smiled tentatively at each other.
"How are you?" Sting asked.
Rogue thought before answering. Don't lie about how you're doing, people said.
"I'm antsy," they said. "The food is awful, and I'm eager to leave. I miss home."
"It misses you back. Frosch says hi. So does Lector. Everyone misses you."
Rogue couldn't tell if everyone included Sting.
"What have you been up to?" Rogue asked, nudging Sting into walking with the barest touch on his wrist. Gooseflesh broke over Rogue's arm from the contact.
"The usual," Sting said. "There was another fight between our wizards and the guild across town. Their guildmaster and I got a dressing-down from the Council which I promptly turned on the guildlings. I think they're properly scared into submission."
Rogue chortled. "Was Minerva there?"
"On a job with Yukino." Laughing self-consciously, Sting scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I might not have given that lecture if she were present."
Rogue grinned.
They walked in silence for a few steps, Rogue phrasing their next question.
"How is Yukino?"
"Usual. Too sweet to everyone, and overpaid by clients because they think she's cute. Oh, and she's been hanging around Minerva a lot. I think something might be up between them."
"I could see that. Minerva always ogled her." They bit their lip. "Is Yukino okay?"
Heaviness fell over the conversation like a blanket of snow, and they both halted. On previous visits, they hadn't discussed the incident at all, keeping things light at Sting's request.
But this time, Sting didn't ask them to change the topic.
He fingered the leaves of a nearby bush. "Yeah, she's okay."
"She's not…traumatized?"
Sting looked up at them, expression solemn.
"Maybe a little. She was really concerned. Did you know Yukino used to work in a hospital?" Sting began walking again, Rogue keeping pace. "She told Minerva and me that when she was learning magic, she'd take her spirits and help out—assist the healers and doctors where possible, make people comfortable, and give people reasons to smile."
"Bet she was good at that."
"Yeah. Explains why she keeps a cool head under pressure. I don't think I've ever seen her crack."
"Maybe it's because she expresses her emotions and doesn't let shit build up," they suggested. "She's the only guildmember I've seen cry besides you."
"You've only had that privilege because of us dating," he laughed.
Rogue smiled back at him, light breaking back into the conversation.
"How are you?" they asked. "Really?"
Sting's silence was achingly long. Rogue couldn't read anything in Sting's movements, or heartbeat, or smell.
"I feel sick a lot," he said. "My stomach churns without warning. Lector says I'm having nightmares, but I don't remember. I keep spacing out while working: Minerva and Rufus came yesterday and told me to take a break."
"Break?" Grabbing Sting's arm, Rogue stared at him. "You're taking a vacation?"
"Depends." Sting bit his lip. "Will you come?"
Joy ricocheted around their insides like a bullet of energy, slick, almost ill. They were so unused to feeling good that they experienced the emotion with suspicion, unsure if it were okay.
"D-Do you want me there?" they stuttered.
Sting gave them an incredulous look. "Of course."
"You'd be okay with…me?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Sting." They pulled up the edge of their sleeve to reveal the cast. "I'll have scars on my wrists for the rest of my life. You'll have to see them every day you're with me."
Sting made a distressed noise.
"I hurt you a lot, Sting. I...betrayed you. I don't want my presence to always remind you and keep hurting you. I can't do that to you."
Groaning, Sting ducked his face into Rogue's neck—shocking them into silence.
"Hold me," Sting whispered.
When Rogue squeezed Sting tight, Sting's warm skin settled in against theirs like he'd always belonged there. They kissed his hair.
"I still like you, you know," Rogue said.
"You do?"
Rogue's breath caught. "Did you think I didn't?"
"You tried to leave me," Sting whispered. "Forever. I thought…"
"Never."
It suddenly hit them how it all would feel to Sting: as if they didn't want him anymore, as if he didn't matter.
"Sting." Rogue felt a tear slide down their cheek as they kissed his hair again. "I'm so fucking sorry. You're the most amazing thing in my life."
They wiped their face with one hand and felt Sting clinging tightly.
"But also," they whispered, "if you need to not be together after this, I'll understand."
"No." The word was plaintive against their neck.
"I won't...do things to myself if you break up with me." Rogue closed their eyes, leaning against Sting's head. "Things spiraled, and I didn't…it just… I don't actually want to die—like right now, when I think about it. Next time things get bad, I'll say something, I'll do something—I promise I won't avoid help."
"Really?"
Sting pulled back, and they saw he was crying.
"For-real promise," Rogue said. They caressed his cheek with their palm.
"I was so scared," Sting whispered.
"Are you still?"
"Sometimes. But Yukino said this place is good at helping people."
"It is," they said.
Sting took their hand in his sweaty fingers.
"So you'll come with me?" Sting asked. "I was thinking we'd get out of town, just us. Somewhere private and quiet, where we can just be. I've been so lonely."
"I don't want you to be lonely," they choked. They smoothed their hand over Sting's chest. "I really, really missed you too."
Sting made a small sound and curled around them again. It was the most physical touch Rogue had had for a while, and it aroused them—not in a sexual way: in an intimate, connected way that filled their ribcage and helped them breathe.
"Rogue, can you come home today?"
"I have two more days. It's helping a lot to be here."
"I need you now," he protested. "The house is empty. I slept at the guild a few nights—until my therapist said that was unhealthy. But now I cry every night, and Frosch too. We need you back before things can feel okay."
As he took a breath, Rogue kissed his cheek softly.
"I need to sleep next to you," Sting went on. "I need to spoon you. I need to get fucked by you, and hold you when I wake up, and shower with you, and have you laugh at my failed attempts at breakfast… I hate, hate, hate living alone. Sometimes it feels like you really are dead—and I just can't."
"Shh. It's okay."
When Sting sniffed, Rogue rubbed his back with both hands, arms around him again.
"I think I need to finish out these two days," they said. "I want to trust the experts about when I'm okay enough to leave. That way you won't have to fear I'll hurt myself again."
"Maybe you can hide me in a closet and I can stay with you?"
Rogue smiled. "I was hoping— If we were still together, I wanted to show you the make-out tree. Only the outpatients know about it."
Sting perked up, and when he looked at them, his gaze was warm.
"Of course we're still together."
Rogue smiled shyly. "That's good."
"Tree?"
Grabbing Sting's hand, Rogue shared a grin with him and hurried across the lawn.
When they got there, Rogue backed Sting against the bark and kissed him, Sting gripping their shoulders hard. Every kiss was long and languorous, lips sliding over each other, seeking each other. A satisfaction settled in their heart that had been missing.
It wasn't the kissing itself. It was the nearness, the earnest looks, the long minutes just being.
"If I asked why you did it," Sting said sometime later, "would you have an answer?"
They'd gone from making out to cuddling, Sting holding them up against the tree. Sting's shirt was open, Rogue's palms gliding over his abdomen while Sting's fingers rested in the back of their waistband.
"No," Rogue said in a low voice, ducking so hair fell over their eyes. "I just really wanted to get out. It felt like things weren't going to get better. I wanted go quickly so you could forget about me and I could stop feeling. I figured everyone would be better off—"
"Don't say that," Sting growled, grip tightening. "I couldn't replace you in a million years. You're part of who I am. Don't ever think I'd be happy without you."
"I don't think that now. But sometimes I'm hyper-aware what my anxiety does to us. I don't spend as much time with you as I'd like because I can't stand the guildhall for long periods. But every time I run away on a job by myself, you get ulcers from the stress, and I hate it…"
"I have an idea," Sting broke in. "The guild makes you nervous, yeah? How about you help me with office things? When you're at Sabertooth, you'll be in my office away from people, and with your help I'll have more free time to take missions together."
"That sounds amazing."
Sting beamed, opening his mouth to say something, but Rogue snagged a kiss from him. Humming, Sting pulled them close and sucked on their lips for several long minutes. Rogue's heart fluttered as they let Sting work down their neck, their vulnerable places melting at the touch.
"I like the idea of seeing more of you," Sting said against their throat. "I'm sorry the guild is uncomfortable. If there's a way I can change that…"
"There isn't. I just need to readjust and learn. But," they murmured in his ear, "I'll always love you."
"I love you, too."
Sting's tongue was deep in Rogue's mouth, and all he could hear them say was a satisfied, "Mmfmm."
"Damn right," he grunted back, hand sliding over their trousers and between their legs. When they mewled, he ground his palm down and continued nudging them across the basement.
Nobody was down here, which was why Sting was happily touching his partner everywhere while pushing them backward toward somewhere private. Rounding a table, Sting ripped open the door to the toilets, Rogue panting as Sting pushed them both inside. He locked the door.
"Sting," Rogue groaned, reeling their boyfriend back in. "Fuuuck."
"Nine years," Sting gasped—they'd bitten his neck. "Happy anniversary. Today I'm finally going to fuck you in the guild."
"O-Oral in the office doesn't count?" Rogue chuckled, voice low.
"I didn't say we never fucked in the guild," Sting said, pulling at Rogue's shirt. "You've fucked me on several occasions. But I never got to return the favor."
"Don't forget that time in the pool."
"Which you made all about me. It's my turn to pleasure you."
They laughed and Sting loved the sound: rich, rolling. Rogue had an amazing laugh. He also liked that they weren't stopping him. Sometimes they got insecure when he tried to love them like this, scared of having all his focus on making them feel good, instead of on the sensation of their lips, fingers, and tongue upon his body. They liked to make it about Sting to take the pressure off themself, and he respected that, but he also really loved making them happy.
When he slid their jacket off—still making out—he felt their body harden.
"Sting."
The guildmaster straightened immediately, hearing every centimeter of warning in that voice. He followed their gaze to a spot on the ceiling.
"That's blood," Rogue said.
Sniffing hard, Sting got a hint of decay.
"It's old."
"I think it's mine," they said softly.
Sting kneaded their biceps as he stared up, thinking fast. There was no way to know for sure, but these were those toilets. Sting gradually began using them again two years after the incident, at first out of necessity; but over time because the flashbacks receded until he almost never pictured Rogue bleeding when he opened the door.
But he wasn't sure if Rogue ever returned to this room. It was five years on now.
"Do you want me to clean it up?" Sting asked, voice gone husky. "Or we can leave."
"No…no, it's alright. Just surprised me." Despite the words, their eyes were wet. Quietly, they said, "You're so sweet. I don't deserve you."
"Wait, we have to deserve each other?" Sting asked in pretend shock. "Shit. Rogue, tell me how I can be worthy of you."
Rogue laughed thickly, but the tears were still collecting in their eyes.
"You make me happy." They paused for a long moment. "I don't—"
"Oh yes, you do. I was a wreck when Dobengal borrowed you for that job. One fucking month and I became a grouchy monster. Yukino says I don't even smile when you're not there. But then you came back and I basically threw an impromptu party."
Rogue ducked their head and Sting's voice grew gentle.
"You don't make me happy by doing things; you make me happy by being. I like you, Rogue. Hard as that may be to believe.
"You make me laugh. You give me a reason to come home. You're kind and powerful, you have incredible magic, and you stand up for people. You're amazing protecting Frosch: you dote on her, and she adores you. Lector too. And you are good at taking care of me."
"...Really?"
Their stare was sincere, so trusting. When they were vulnerable like this, Sting's heart stirred with the urge to prove his loyalty by standing between them and anyone who would hurt them. Rogue thought they weren't worthy? It was Rogue who deserved everything.
"I believe that," Sting whispered.
Rogue panted, still staring at him with that hopeful intensity. Their skin was hot. Pupils dilated. Fucking gorgeous. Oh gods, and they were still turned on.
Kissing their cheek, he pulled them into one of the stalls, latched the door, and leaned them against it, covering them with his body.
"Can't see anything now," Sting grinned, rutting up against them; Rogue gasped. "And pretty soon you won't smell anything but me."
"Okay."
Their smile was always the most beautiful thing Sting had ever seen.
The Shadow Dragon proceeded to be the loudest he'd ever heard them, moans reverberating off the tile as Sting fucked them gently against the wall. As the pair moved together, melding into the same rhythm, they became a single entity.
Winding down afterward, Sting pinning Rogue with his weight, Rogue let out a contented sigh.
"That felt good," they said, wrapping shaky hands around his waist. "I needed that."
"Yeah," he agreed reverently. "I needed you to need that."
Rogue's chuckle was soft. "It feels like we redeemed this place."
Sting met their red eyes, Rogue's expression open, flushed, confident and sure, and full of many tangled things.
"Thanks for all these years, Sting."
He nuzzled them. "Thank you for sticking around with me."
A/N: The blood on the ceiling was a real thing that happened. It made it so hard to shower but I couldn't stand to clean it up.
It's OKAY to lean on the people who love you. It feels special when someone trusts us with their darkness; when we love someone, we want them to lean on us.
xoxoxo