Hey there, how are you doing? I was just wondering if you're doing a Stingue week this year (again in November?) I've entered the fandom and started doing art and fic not too long ago so I missed a lot of events, I'm excited to participate this time! ^^
Hiya!! Sorry if you’ve been waiting on this message for awhile, both the mods have been busy with college stuff, but yes! We are doing stingue week this year! We’re brainstorming prompts right now, and the week should be in mid-November! We’re really looking forward to it and can’t wait to see what everyone makes!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: ½
Fandom: Fairy Tail
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Rogue Cheney/Sting Eucliffe
Characters: Rogue Cheney, Sting Eucliffe
Additional Tags: Stingue Week, Stingue Week 2019, Prompt: Betrayal, Comedy, But Sting would tag this as angst
Summary:
Sting returns home and finds out that Rogue has betrayed him in a way he never thought he would.
*Opens the door, throws in a late entry for betrayal and runs like the wind*
“Darkness without light is an abyss
light without darkness is blinding
You cannot have a coin with one side.”
We’re excited to announce a new Stingue Week event this year! It will run from April 8-14.
We will be accepting Art, Edits, Fanfiction, Headcanons and pretty much anything Stingue related as long as it’s original and previously unpublished. Incest, pedophilia or character bashing will not be accepted.
We are working on prompts at the moment and should have them ready for you in the next few weeks so follow @shadowlight-week for all news on this event. Remember, this is a new event so we’re relying on you to help us get the word out!
*This event is not meant to replace the existing Stingue Week which happens in November.
I’m so excited! Are you excited?? So anyone who doesn’t know this is the start of my next new ambitious fic series. I got the idea for it to be a part of Stingue week but only the first chapter will be. After that I’ll upload weekly, probably every Saturday, and I’ll be honest, I have no idea how long this will be but I’m predicting at least ten more chapters probably more.
Long story without my rambling: Sting’s a detective in the 1930′s. Rogue’s the son of a mafia Don. There will be lots of angst~ Enjoy :_)
Oh this is also on AO3 now! This chap caps out at about 4k words!
Part(s): [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]
Series: To Love or to Lose is a Yukinerva aspect of this universe
Pairing(s): Stingue, eventual yukinerva and orfus, possible gajevy or nalu
Setting: New York City by Long Island 1935.
Summary: With a rise in murder cases, poverty, drunken brawls, and thievery Sting Eucliffe is watching his city go up in flames. The Great War killed everyone else he knew. The stock market crash destroyed any hope America had left. In such difficult times Sting struggles to fight off the past and to find a hope that’ll keep him going.
After ten years in a foreign country Rogue Cheney finds himself at the bottom of the world’s pit of despair. Yet he can’t seem to find the emotion to care. Even if he could it would serve the future Don of the Cheney Clan no good. His father has a business to run. And he has a lot to learn.
September 2, 1935
The long drag from the cigarette tastes foul in his mouth for the first time in his life. The ashes flare up brightly then recede just as quickly into a charcoal colored stub on the end of the stick. Sting Eucliffe held the smoke in for a few moments, letting the putrid taste sit on his tongue.
It’s fine, he tells himself. He deserves this, he knows. The cigarette is just a pale imitation for the world that tried to kill him every day. Society was the flame and Sting was the tobacco. He was always being chased, always being lit on fire for other’s amusement. And the certain other he thought of was permanently stuck in the back of his mind, disintegrating every last happy memory he’d had. Just like the embers chase away the mint tasting menthol with every inhale.
He blew the smoke out through his nose at first and then, when he couldn’t stand the taste any longer, he opened his mouth to release it all at once. He watched it billow into a hazy fog that quickly covered up the dull gray of the ceiling tiles. The smoke was clouding over everything until, even with the golden light of evening coming through the slanted blinds, Sting thought that his entire office was turning gray.
He was just about to take another drag when there came a knock on the door. He sighed as he sat back, the squeak that followed sounded like chills up his chair’s spine. “Come in,” he moaned to the closed glass door.
In a moment his silver haired secretary peeked inside. Her round cheeks were as rosy as always, and it shocked Sting, the contrast such a fair haired young creature had in this dull office. “Detective?” she called.
Sting sat forward, pushing the butt of his cigarette into his ashtray. Trying for a smile he said, “Yukino, don’t be shy now. What can I do for you?”
Yukino slipped her way between the door and stood before him fully. “Chief has been asking for you. Says he’s got another tough case that he needs you for.” Yukino paused and Sting casually cast a glance outside his office. The blinds were always down but he kept them slanted slightly so he could see basic movement within the precinct.
Sure enough, there was Chief Jiemma standing impatiently by Yukino’s reception desk, tapping his foot and glaring at everyone. Sting also noticed how suddenly every officer in the station was dutifully doing their work, noses to their files or telephones so they wouldn’t have to look at the Chief. He didn’t like to be looked at.
Sting blew air out of his nose. “Yikes, he doesn’t look happy,” he remarked.
Yukino clasped her hands neatly in front of her long pressed skirt. “I would be wary. The departments been breathing down his neck because of the rising unsolved murders.”
Sting rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Don’t remind me,” he said then he stood up. “Alright, I’ll be there in a moment.”
Yukino nodded and shyly slipped out of his office to tell Jiemma he would be present soon. Sting, meanwhile, ran a hand through his slicked back blonde hair. The day was wearing thin, and so was his appearance. Soon his hair would start sticking up in random spots, this gel was the only way he could keep it controlled.
But it wasn’t time to think about that right now. If Jiemma was being hounded from HR that likely meant he was going to hound Sting too. It wasn’t like Sting was already up to his knees in unsolved, no lead murder cases. He was starting to believe crime in this city was going to consume them all. Not to mention the whispers he’d heard that gangs had been forming in the dregs of back alley residence areas. This city is going to shit... Sting thought as he walked around his office desk and out into the tense silence of the precinct.
He kept his back straight as he approached, already fingering another cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Chief?” Sting said lighting up the cigarette as he approached.
Jiemma grumbled and crossed his arms, looking down at Sting from his impossible height and bushy face of hair. “Ass in gear, Eucliffe, we got another murder case. Fifteen year old girl this time. That brings this precinct ten cases behind and HR is going to start making cuts if you can’t do your job right.” His voice was deep, gruff like it always was when he’d been drinking too much.
Sting simply nodded and didn’t meet his gaze, looking instead to the cigarette between his fingers as he flicked away the excess ashes. “What are the details of the case? I’ll look over them all tonight.”
Jiemma huffed and frowned. “No, not tonight, now -” He shoved a thin folder into Sting’s chest and made to walk away, forcing Sting to follow him as he went. “I don’t want any excuses this time, Detective. There’s a reason all these unsolved murders are piling up and I want to see results from you.”
Jiemma stomped around each desk, his expression just as heavy as his footsteps, towards his own office. Each officer either found an excuse to suddenly get up from their chairs before Jiemma passed, or a reason to duck under their desk, leaving Jiemma’s footpath empty. Sting followed obediently, like a trained cat, not making any noise.
“You think they’re all connected, Chief?”
With one hand on the metal of his office door handle Jiemma whipped around, “Of course they’re connected, boy!” he roared and Sting stopped a few extra paces back. “Ten murder cases in three weeks and whispers of a new gang in D4 and you think it’s a coincidence?”
Sting nodded his head and kept his face stoic. “It is suspicious, sir.”
“Right,” Jiemma said standing in the doorway to talk loudly at Sting. “So figure it out, Eucliffe. I want results!”
Without another word Jiemma stepped inside and slammed the door in Sting’s face. He was left standing, cigarette burning uselessly where it hung from his lips. He fingered the edges of the thin file of papers nervously for a moment then turned around.
Every eye in the precinct was on him. Officers stopped in their tracks to stare widely at the show. Sting rolled his eyes and made sure everyone saw. Putting the file under his arm and grabbing the cigarette between his fingers he said, “Alright, back off scamps. Nothing new happened here. Just get back to work before he kills us all for slacking off.”
Instantly life returned to the station as if nothing had happened. Sting began to walk back to his office. It was almost a rarity now when Chief showed up here. He guessed that was the reason for everyone’s curiosity. Sting didn’t know where Jiemma was always running off to, and he didn’t really have the courage to ask.
The last time someone asked Jiemma a personal question it was his daughter and she didn’t leave the station without some nasty bruises. No one really questioned the chief after that. They all just stuck to their jobs, because what he did didn’t matter as long as they got paid.
Sting hated that atmosphere. It should matter to them. He had never been able to get close to the chief’s daughter, not that he wanted to, but Minerva Orland had always seemed to be hiding something. He had a feeling that Jiemma was the reason for that, even if most of the time she acted like she enjoyed the torture Jiemma would inflict on them. Sting had a gut feeling she was just acting out of self-preservation.
Not unlike the rest of them, Sting observed. In all his years on the force he had found that that’s really all life is. Just a world of self-serving bastards trying once more in pitiful desperation to survive until tomorrow.
He slapped the file on his desk and moved to the cabinets lined up on his wall so he could look at the others all together. Ten cases. Ten murders. And only one lead across all of them that was currently skipping town.
Sting hated to admit it but cases were never this empty. Not in a city as big as New York, not with telegraphs and telephones making communication-and subsequently gossip-easier to hear. The more he struggled with this the more he thought that evidence was purposefully being hidden or stolen from the police. Someone wanted very much to cover up their tracks.
The chief’s words rang in his ears once more, Ten murder cases in three weeks and whispers of a new gang forming down in D4 and you think it’s a coincidence? Sting swallowed hard. If New York was breeding new gangs, dangerous ones that killed for sport or perhaps something worse, he would have an entirely different case on his hand. One that could kill him at any turn if he slipped up.
Sting walked from his desk over to the table by his cabinets, and poured a glass of whiskey. He took a slow sip and let the burn ease its way down his throat. If this did end up killing him what would be the harm in a few more liquid deaths before he got there.
Rogue Cheney hated slackers. He had no sympathy for the stupid sluggers who gave excuse after excuse without result. So the idea of standing here, ready to kick down the door of the shithole his weasel of a soldier stuffed himself in now was repulsing to say the least.
He had told Damien over and over again to not fuck up. To clean up every scrap of evidence. Hell, Rogue had even made it easy and gotten one of their associates to go into the precinct and wipe any evidence the police did manage to find. But still Damien was here, running for his life, because despite all of their careful planning and protocols in place a missing person’s report had been put out along with a BOLO for arrest with Damien’s face on it.
After thirty minutes of listening silently at the front door he had heard enough to know that his weasel was still inside, talking in hushed tones to someone who sounded like his wife. Rogue turned around, the silk material of his dress clothes swishing delicately as he did. With one look at his soldiers- his soldatos -behind him, they were charging inside the rundown shack they called a complex.
Rogue watched each soldato stomp inside. He listened calmly to the screams that followed. Every man had his weapon drawn as he stepped across the threshold. Rogue waited until the first shrieks of shock had died down, and he knew that his targets had been wrangled together, before he stepped in.
Rogue held his head high, taking his hat off as he entered. He held the hat where his heart should have been. With a fierce gaze he looked over the room. The weasel was clutching onto his wife and child. Coward. Rogue thought. A wiry frame of a man too weak to protect his own. His long face paled as Rogue strutted forward and all of a sudden his mouth was unhinging wildly but no sound made it out.
Rogue’s shined shoes clicked on the pine flooring as it creaked under his weight. He opened his arms and gave Damien a grin. “Damien,” he spoke drawing out his words in a thick Italian accent. He had practiced it just to remind Damien of where Rogue and his family came from. Things may be different in America but Damien had to remember that Italians like him and his father don’t play by their rules. America is weak, but Rogue wouldn’t be.
He was only two steps away when Damien let go of his wife, who then hugged her seven year old son closer to her. He was on his knees now, pleading, getting dirt all over the expensive suit Rogue’s father had given him.
“ Capo,” Damien pleaded putting both his hands together. “ Capo, please. Mercy-” Damien tried to shuffle forward on his knees but Rogue slyly slipped a pistol out of his pocket and leveled it at Damien’s head. There was barely a split second for Damien to realize he was staring down the barrel of a gun before the bullet split its way through his skull.
Damien’s wife screamed as his body fell to the floor, all blood splatter and leaky wounds. Much to Rogue’s surprise the little boy barely even flinched. He just stared at his father’s dead body, all dark eyes almost black in the dingy room, while his mother shook him and went into hysterics.
Rogue looked at the boy for a while. When the kid didn’t meet his eyes he bent down, knees hanging over the blood puddle. “Come ti chiami?” Rogue asked and kept staring. Finally the boy looked up and Rogue noticed a single tear was falling down his left cheek.
He looked confused and the more he stared the more his eyebrows creased. “What’s your name, son?” When the boy didn’t answer Rogue continued with a nasally “Huh, don’t you got one?” Rogue jerked the barrel of the pistol in his direction to get his attention.
Suddenly the boy straightened. His mother by now had collapsed on the floor and was whispering Damien’s name over and over again, like a mantra, as she crawled slowly to his body. “F-Frosch?” the boy stuttered. He swallowed thickly, a bead of sweat falling down his temple from his head of chalky brown hair.
Rogue chuckled. “Say it clearly, piccolo. Be proud of who you are.”
Frosch nodded slightly, his pupils now shakily darting between each of Rogue’s eyes. He was now pointedly avoiding the corpse of his father. “Frosch,” he said loud and clear.
Rogue smirked. “That’s a good, boy. You know you could turn into something-” Rogue talked with the gun in his hand, gesturing casually to Damien’s body. “-not like this failure. And listen I’ve already killed a lot today, and I could take you too, but kids- eehh-” Rogue made a face and waved his hands searching for the words. “Let’s just say we Italians have a strong moral code for some things. So, Frosch, if you behave and follow orders, you may be able to stay with us from now on.”
Frosch’s eyes seemed to level out at the size of dinner plates. His expression lost its confusion and gained something that Rogue knew all too well. Blankness. Emptiness. And judging by the deadset in Frosch’s eyes Rogue would say it was coupled with the inability to feel anything when he knew he should be in a similar state as his weeping mother.
Still he didn’t spare her another glance as she lay on her husband’s chest, trying to wipe the blood off his forehead in vain. “And what if I don’t want to?” Frosch asked.
Rogue gave a noncommittal shrug and pointed once more with his gun to the corpse of Frosch’s father. Frosch looked at his father again, but it was almost like the first time and his eyes widened all over again. In a split second he pieced it all together. His head snapped back up to Rogue who had extended a hand.
Without looking back Frosch took it and followed Rogue as he stood up to bring Frosch out of the house. The boy tried to look back a few times, especially when his mother began calling his name. She nearly reached him with her hands to pull him back.
But Rogue didn’t need to say anything before she was restrained, he placed one hand on Frosch’s shoulder to keep him from turning around. Walking out of the shack her ghastly shrieks followed as the soldatos closed in, all guns and stern bodies blocking view of her only offspring. The last thing they heard was a high pitched screech cut off at its apex, leaving the now silent air bone chilling in the tail end of summer.
“Yer a fucking idiot, Ryos.”
Rogue fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Stop calling me that,” Rogue said in a flat tone.
The man standing in front of him, his brother, took another look over at the boy Rogue had picked up. Since arriving back at the Cheney house, Frosch had been rather quiet, though Rogue couldn’t be sure if that was normal for the boy. Now he was sitting patiently, thighs on his palms and staring at his kicking feet in the large grand foyer of the Cheney mansion. Rogue briefly wondered why the boy hadn’t broken down by now. He doubted Frosch was used to the mafias tactics; but the implication given by his reaction to all this suggested otherwise, and that put a knot in Rogue’s stomach.
In his experience, the family didn’t deal in children. Not since his elder brother had nearly been killed for being the child of a hidden affair. But Rogue also knew that the family held its own code of honors, one which involved no killing of children. For now that meant he would have to take Frosch under his wing, get the boy situated in a housing agreement with someone willing, and hopefully- hopefully-the boy wouldn’t be too much trouble.
Gajeel scoffed, he put his scarred hands in the pockets of his baggy slacks. “Kid looks like a wimp.”
“Mind your business, fratello,” Rogue warned.
“You know the boss doesn’t deal in kids,” Gajeel barked at him. “What makes you think you can keep him?” Rogue opened his mouth but before he could say anything Gajeel added. “And don’t call me, fratello.”
Rogue curled his lips. “Your mother is my mother; that makes us fratelli. But I’m not here to debate blood with you, where’s the boss?”
Gajeel groaned and turned from Rogue to light up a cigar. “Fuck if I know. He’s your kin, I was just leaving.”
Gajeel made as if to walk away but Rogue grabbed his elbow and gripped it hard. “Why are you here, anyway?” Rogue asked.
Gajeel ripped his arm out of Rogue’s grasp, his teeth grinding a little too much on the butt of his cigar. “Relax, I was looking for the boss too but he ain’t here.”
Rogue sneered. His elder half-brother only came around for the boss if he wanted something. And after all the stunts Gajeel had pulled with his drinking, drugs, and fucking around he’d been cut off from any legitimate claims to the Cheney’s estate or expenses, even after Rogue's father had been so kind as to allow him an illegitimate chance at it. Rogue despised the idea of Gajeel coming back and asking for something now. After all that’s happened Gajeel can’t possibly expect the boss to do anything for the son of an affair that wasn’t even his own.
“All of the power offered to you in this house and you still seek the boss’s money just to chase the dregs of society…” Rogue commented harshly but Gajeel didn’t grace him with a response. He offered no more words and his reaching hand fell back to his side. Gajeel gave him a hairy eyeball before shrugging off the touch and stomping out of the main foyer.
Rogue watched his body disappear behind the closed door. His attention was broken finally when Frosch’s high pitched voice called to him.
“Do I have to leave now?”
Rogue turned to the boy, eyebrows furrowed. “What?” he asked some of the venom from his talk with Gajeel still present in his tone.
Frosch shrugged. “Last time they couldn’t find the man to take care of me I had to leave.”
Rogue walked lightly up to Frosch. “What do you mean the ‘last time’?” he asked.
Frosch stared up at him with big dark eyes, if the light held them long enough Rogue could tell they were brown but here in the dim foyer before nightfall they looked as black as his pupils. “Back at the orphanage. I went to my first family but they never found the head of the house so I had to leave.”
“Your first family?” Rogue quirked an eyebrow. Frosch just nodded matter of factly. So this boy is used to seeing rotten things? Rogue thought. He frowned slightly and said, “Nevermind, I don’t care. Just go upstairs. Last door on the right is my room you can have it until we figure out where you’ll go.”
Frosch followed his order without hesitation. His small steps echoed in the grand room as he practically ran up the stairs. Rogue let out a heavy breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He turned his attention instead to the problem at hand.
Where was his father? He couldn’t very much bring a new child into the family without permission first, especially one as young as Frosch. And he knew his father’s loathsome attitude towards anyone younger than twenty-five. Most of the time Rogue was even sure his father hated him, his only son, simply for not growing up fast enough.
On a whim Rogue found his feet had brought him into the kitchen where servants were preparing the family’s dinner. Porchetta. His father’s favorite. Though it was hard to tell, wherever the boss was, that a dinner would bring him home tonight.
“Adelina?” Rogue called to the brown haired servant preparing the ingredients and ordering around the other cooks. “Tell me when the boss will be home, ah?” he paused then added, “And make sure the boy in my room is taken care of.”
Adelina nodded vigorously then turned back to her work as one servant dumped steaming water in the wrong pot. She stopped short, finally processing what Rogue had said. “Boy? What boy?”
But Rogue had already left the kitchen. He was suddenly in a state of fathomless boredom. His time was no longer occupied and for the rest of the night he was free. Unless the family suddenly needed him for something. But he doubted they would.
Rogue made his way back to the foyer, grabbed his hat and left the house with a swift wind under his feet. Summer was just ending and New York brought a cool autumn breeze to an otherwise dead cityscape. The Cheney mansion was a bit of a walk away from downtown but Rogue had nothing better to do. He swallowed the idle thoughts that plagued his mind like pond scum floating delicately on top of murky water. He was just bored, nothing more.
Yet still as Rogue continued down the long driveway and turned the corner at the front gates he found himself fighting one persistent thought. One thought that rang true in the small corners of his mind. A small truth that scuttled from the safety of the shadows for to come into the light was to be destroyed. Rogue was a monster, because he wasn’t sure he had ever felt anything at all.
Where Rogue found his feet taking him was further into town than he had planned. Halfway through the walk he stopped thinking and just floated. His soles carried him down the cracked pavement of the outskirts into the smooth cement of the old city. Without a purpose or a direction. He was drifting away from the world but his feet kept walking.
By the time his awareness floated back to him he realized he was walking close to Wall Street. His distaste for the more uppity business types didn’t sit well with him or anyone from his family. And the feeling was mutual. Legality was often ignored within the mafia family of New York. And Rogue knew of quite a few politicians and businessmen that would love to do away with the kind of filth they were so sure a mafia was.
He turned on his heel before he got too far. Turning around Rogue saw the night winding down and street lamps turning on. At this time of night the party goers were just starting to wander the streets. Flapper girls and young men barely out of their parents roofs took to the bars and restaurants.
Rogue despised the idea of interacting with anyone; but sometimes a crowded bar was the best place to be alone. No one cared what you did, what you drank or who you talked to. So he walked into the busiest bar he could see in sight.
The interior was dark, somehow darker than the night outside. It was still lit pleasantly every few feet with golden fluorescents that provided a calming atmosphere. Stirring so differently from the atmospheric light were the people in the bar. Some, who looked like they’d been there a long time, were already drunk and swaying on their seats. There was a jazz band on a stage to the right, and a throng of people dancing in their flowing dress outfits.
Rogue took a seat as far on the end of the bar as he could. He quickly ordered a shot of gin and a bourbon. The gin went down smoothly, too smoothly. The bourbon however took it’s time to burn as it slid down his esophagus. He had barely taken the rim of the cup from his mouth before another shot was slammed down in front of him.
Rogue looked over in distaste. A very smiley blonde was standing, one elbow on the counter and a twinkle in his blue eyes that mimicked the light of the bar. Rogue frowned at him. But the boy just kept on smiling.
Finally he leaned in closer, and said rather loudly to be heard over the din of the crowd, “Name’s Sting. You look like you need a drink.”
"FUCK YOU!" Rogue exclaimed as Sting surpassed him yet again in Mario Kart, using a blue shell to deprive him of first place. A couple of other NPCs drove past him as his character recovered.
"Maybe later." Sting winked in reply, before turning his attention back to the screen. Rogue couldn't help but roll his eyes.
"You are literally the worst."
"But you love me anyways."
"Subjective."
The couple rarely played video games together; in fact, Rogue wasn't a huge fan of games and Sting usually played with Natsu and Gray. However, due to the stormy weather outside, they were left with minimal options for indoor entertainment. Not that either of them minded. Sting was very comfortable curled up against his boyfriend's side as they laid together on the couch. Of course, it was hardly big enough for two grown men so Rogue had one arm draped around the blond's shoulders to prevent them both from falling off. It made it more difficult to hold his console, however it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.
"How does second place feel, babe?" Sting teased as he continued in first place, halfway through the final lap. Rogue was close behind, diminishing the other opponents with red shells and banana peels. He refused to lose to his boyfriend four times in a row - Sting would never let him live it down. They were drawing close to the finish line when Rogue had managed to catch up, both cars driving almost next to each other and alternating between first and second. The pair would be lying if they said that the current situation wasn't stressing them both out.
"I don't know, you tell me." Just mere seconds before they both reached the finish line, Rogue quickly leaned in and placed a kiss on the shell of Sting's ear. Before Sting could protest, he nibbled at his boyfriend's skin, feeling the blond boy squirm under the contact, and retreating back to his position as if nothing had happened. The breath of anticipation Sting had been holding was released with a surprised squeak, a rosy blush gracing his face. Sting being flustered was adorable, Rogue noted, however not as satisfying as winning at Mario Kart. In Sting's moment of weakness, Rogue was just about able to cut in front of his boyfriend, claiming the first place title. Sting felt a piece of his soul die; he was supposed to be the superior gamer in this relationship. Now the universe had fallen out of balance. Well, at least it had to Sting.
"You actually fucking won..." As he took a few moments to process what he just happened, Rogue strategically managed to take the console in his grasp and put it on the floor, to prevent any anger-induced damage.
"How does second place feel, babe?" Rogue couldn't help himself from mimicking Sting's previous statement, failing to hide the laughter in his voice.
"You fucking cheated!" Sting pouted, glaring at his boyfriend and folding his arms over his chest. Which was pretty impressive considering the lack of space to move. Sting being a sore loser was also adorable, Rogue once again noted.
"On what grounds? Nowhere in the Nintendo terms and conditions does it say that I can't lovingly kiss my boyfriend during a game."
"There was no love in that kiss, only deceit and treachery. You asshole."
"Sting, you're being over-dramatic." Rogue tried to pull Sting closer to his chest, however he resisted, visibly still annoyed.
"Excuse me, I'm being the perfect amount of 'dramatic' for someone of my current situation," he argued. "Gray and Natsu wouldn't deceive me like this."
"Sweetie, Gray and Natsu would most definitely sabotage your gameplay at any given moment."
"Mm, true, but they wouldn't kiss me as a distraction."
"Does that mean you'd be opposed to another one?" Rogue watched with intent as Sting started weighing up pros and cons in his mind. He was still pretty mad at Rogue, however, on the other hand, he liked making out with his boyfriend.
"..Not necessarily."
"Thought so." Rogue leaned in again, with Sting's lips meeting his in the middle. The sound of rain outside created a calming aura in contrast to the heated nature of their previous game. Sting pulled away first, taking a moment to appreciate how beautiful his boyfriend was; with his ruffled dark hair, lidded scarlet eyes and enticing lips. It was almost enough to make up for his previous betrayal. He wrapped his arms around Rogue's waist so that they were now chest-to-chest.
"Y'know, even though you're a filthy cheater, I still love you." Sting admitted, resting his head against Rogue's neck.
"Even though you're a sore loser, I love you too."
