A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 25

+++

I knew that symbol.

Raven Branwen.

On paper, she was practically one of the most terrifying individuals you could imagine. An extraordinary fighter and a maiden—one of Ozpin's chosen wielders of immense magical power though that power was stolen from someone else. With a mere thought, she could teleport anywhere and everywhere, so long as she shared an emotional connection with someone. Beyond that, she commanded the infamous Branwen Tribe, a ruthless band of cutthroats and killers, all united under her ruthless philosophy of "Might Makes Right."

But in practice?

She was a coward. A woman who abandoned her family, her daughter, and her responsibilities. A hypocrite who hid in the shadows of Mistral's criminal underbelly while the rest of the world fought against Salem's tyranny. For someone who preached strength as a virtue, she certainly did not practice what she preached.

Of course, you'd never dare say that to her face.

I had heard the whispers, the rumors. The East was dangerous. The East was overrun. Do not go there. And much of that danger stemmed from the Branwen Tribe. Yet now, I'd learned that Raven herself was funding—or perhaps outright supporting—a pretender to the Imperial Throne? Someone trying to carve out their own territory amidst the chaos?

These thoughts weighed heavily on my mind as we marched back to Cius. We all longed for home, not just to celebrate our victory but because the night was dark and full of terrors. Our procession was a strange one: prisoners marched alongside us, carts overflowing with loot, and the pretender herself lay unconscious, bound and sleeping soundly on a wagon. When she woke, she and her men would find themselves locked away in Cius's jail.

Then there was the information we'd gathered. The map in her tent painted a grim picture. It seemed inevitable that any town or village outside Mistral's direct control would soon fall—either to remnants of old bloodlines clawing for dominance or to bandits left unchecked. 

I had always known, both from fanon and canon, that Mistral was a mess—a crumbling empire riddled with corruption and decay. But now that I lived in it, I could see the rot for myself.

Cius, at least, could protect itself. Its relative wealth and a proactive mayor—though currently unconscious and in dire need of stitches—gave it a fighting chance. But what of the other towns? The other villages?

It was then that I began to smell opportunity.

From Cius, we could mount interceptions. We could mount interceptions. We could establish patrols, protect the roads, and secure the region from the chaos that was threatening to consume it. Be a protective shield. If we could provide it, we'd gain their loyalty. Their trust.

Mistral's leadership was fractured, weak, and blind to the struggles of its people. The Branwen Tribe took advantage of that, and so could I—but not in the way they did. No, I wasn't interested in preying on the weak for the sake of being a cretin. 

No. 

They would be something more. 

A testbed at first. 

But when dusted, it shall be a spear. 

A spear aimed directly at the heart of Jacques Schnee.

+++

Cius both celebrated and mourned.

A victory was a victory, and that alone gave the people a reason to cheer. But mourning followed closely behind, a shadow to the triumph. There were casualties—faces missing from the crowd, chairs that would remain empty. Some bore wounds that, though grim at first glance, could still be treated; after all, folk in Remnant were built sturdier than most. A man could take a Huntsman's weapon to the chest and walk away with broken ribs instead of a fatal wound. It was a brutal resilience, born from a world shaped by bloody evolution.

But even that wasn't enough for everyone. Some hadn't made it back.

Sienna exhaled sharply, arms crossed, as the parade passed through the cheering streets. Already, tables were being set up, and the promise of food and drink was thick in the air. The townsfolk deserved this moment, this fleeting reprieve from the grim reality that waited just beyond the walls.

Bootsteps echoed beside her.

"It's still strange to see," Malik murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "Humans and faunus living together like this. Relatively well, anyway. Back in Solitas, something like this would never happen."

"Believe it," Sienna replied, her tone dry but not unkind. "Port towns are always a little softer around the edges. But don't get too comfortable. The deeper we go into Mistral, the more we'll be reminded of the world we actually live in."

Malik nodded, his ears twitching slightly. "It's a bit sad, isn't it?"

"It's reality," she said simply.

"Well," he said after a pause, "I'm going to join the others. Might as well enjoy the moment while it lasts. What about you?"

Sienna snorted. "I'll pass. But thanks for asking."

The wolf faunus shrugged, an easy grin spreading across his face. "Suit yourself, boss."

She watched him disappear into the crowd, his laughter quickly swallowed by the noise of celebration. Her attention, however, drifted elsewhere—to a stone bench near the edge of the square.

Sienna's gaze lingered on Adam. He sat still, elbows resting on his knees, head cradled in his hands like he carried the weight of the world. The celebration swirled around him—cheering villagers, clinking mugs, the occasional explosion of laughter—but Adam seemed untouched by it all.

She hesitated, debating whether to leave him to his thoughts. But something about the way his shoulders sagged, the heaviness in his posture, drew her in. Sienna sighed and approached him.

"You're moping," she said flatly, crossing her arms.

Adam didn't look up at first, but after a moment, he let out a low chuckle. "Is that what it looks like?"

"Yeah." Sienna sat down on the bench beside him, folding her arms and leaning back. "You're sitting here like some tragic hero in a bad play. What's eating you?"

He sighed, rubbing his temples before finally meeting her gaze. His crimson eyes, sharp as ever, carried a hint of something deeper—uncertainty.

"Cius is safe, for now," he began, his voice low. "And that's good. But this victory... it's just one battle. The whole region out there is either burning or already burnt."

Ah.

Sienna sat up straighter, her attention sharpening. Adam continued.

"We celebrate now, but the bandits, the pretenders—they're circling like vultures, waiting for their moment to strike. Mistral isn't going to save the countryside's people. They've already turned their backs on them. And if we don't act fast, if we don't start building something stronger—something bigger—then this…" He gestured again, this time to the town around them. "This peace won't last."

Sienna studied him for a moment. "So what's the plan, then?"

Adam stared at her, his expression unreadable.

"Plan?"

She snorted. "You wouldn't be talking about this if you didn't have something on your mind."

Adam let out a dry laugh, though it lacked humor. "Touché." He paused, the weight of his thoughts dragging his shoulders lower. "I honestly don't know where to start. We need soldiers, resources, alliances. And that's just the beginning. We can't protect everyone as we are now."

"Maybe not," Sienna admitted. "But you're forgetting something."

He raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

She smirked. "You're not alone in this. You've got people behind you. People who believe in you. Look at them." She nodded toward the crowd. "They're celebrating because of you. They fought for you. They'll follow you, Adam. You just need to give them a reason to."

Her smirk softened slightly, and she leaned forward, planting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"We'll figure it out as we go along, alright?"

Adam was silent for a long moment, his gaze drifting back to the crowd. The villagers were laughing, drinking, and sharing stories of the battle. Even Malik, who had just complained about the state of the world, was grinning as he raised a mug in a toast.

Adam's shoulders loosened slightly. Then, slowly, his hands drifted, resting over hers.

He tilted his head, just enough to meet her gaze again. There was no smirk, no flash of arrogance—just gratitude, quiet and sincere.

"Thanks," he murmured.

Sienna shrugged, ignoring her heartbeat, as her usual edge returning. "Don't thank me yet. We've still got a hell of a road ahead."

Adam nodded, his grip on her hand firming briefly before he let go. He stood, his gaze hardening again, though the weight in his posture seemed lighter now.

[SPOILER="Rodrigo y Gabriela - Diablo Rojo"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:0bLEzeW5CJQ"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bLEzeW5CJQ[/URL][/SPOILER]

"I suppose we should celebrate too," Adam said. "It would be a waste to let all this free food and drink go unattended."

Sienna raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across her face. "You? Celebrate? That's a sentence I didn't think I'd hear in my lifetime."

Adam gave her a faint smirk. "Even I know when to take a moment. And besides, you could use a break too."

"I'm fine right here," Sienna replied, leaning back slightly on the bench and gesturing vaguely at the crowd. "Go enjoy yourself. You're better at the whole… 'rallying the people' thing anyway."

Adam tilted his head, studying her for a moment. "You really don't like this kind of thing, do you?"

She scoffed. "What gave it away? The fact that I'm not out there dancing with Malik?"

"You deserve to enjoy this as much as anyone else. Even if it's just for one night." Adam said, his tone quiet but insistent.

Sienna hesitated, her usual sharpness faltering for a moment. Her gaze flicked to the crowd—laughing villagers, children darting between tables, the music swelling louder with every passing second. It was chaotic, noisy, and the exact opposite of her comfort zone. But then her eyes drifted back to Adam, and something in his expression—earnest, almost pleading—gave her pause.

"I don't know…" she began, her voice trailing off.

Adam extended a hand toward her, his smirk softening into something gentler. "Come on. Just one drink. One bite to eat. If you hate it, you can leave, and I won't say another word about it."

Sienna stared at his hand like it was some kind of trap. Her instincts screamed at her to refuse—to stay on the outskirts, where it was quiet and predictable. But then she thought about his words, about how much they'd both been through, and found herself exhaling a long sigh.

"Fine," she muttered, reaching out to take his hand. "But if I regret this, I'm blaming you."

Adam chuckled as he helped her to her feet. "Deal."

The celebration was louder than Sienna had anticipated, the air thick with the mingling scents of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spiced ale. Adam guided her to one of the long tables, where a group of villagers immediately greeted them with cheers and mugs raised high.

"To our heroes!" someone shouted, and the crowd erupted into applause.

Sienna's cheeks flushed slightly, and she instinctively ducked her head, muttering, "This was a mistake."

Adam, however, seemed unfazed. He grabbed two mugs of ale from a nearby tray and handed one to her. "It's not so bad," he said, raising his mug. "You just have to let it happen."

Sienna eyed the mug warily before taking a tentative sip. The ale was strong but warm, the kind of drink that spread through her chest and loosened the edges of her usual guardedness. She hated to admit it, but it wasn't terrible.

"See?" Adam said, his grin widening. "Not so bad."

"Don't get cocky," she replied, but there was no real bite to her words.

They sat at the table, eating and drinking as the celebration carried on around them. Adam surprised her with how at ease he seemed, chatting with villagers and even laughing at some of Malik's ridiculous stories. Sienna, for her part, stayed quieter, but she found herself smiling more than she expected, her usual tension slowly unwinding.

At one point, Adam leaned closer, his voice low enough to be heard over the noise. "You're not half as scary as you pretend to be, you know."

Sienna snorted, giving him a side-eye. "Don't push your luck, Taurus."

He chuckled, raising his mug in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The lively chatter of the crowd dimmed for just a moment as the music shifted—quick, energetic, utterly contagious. A flamenco rhythm exploded across the square like flint to dry straw: castanets clacked like teeth on skin, the heel-stomp of boots rumbled like war drums, guitars shrieked in staccato bursts of desire. The very air pulsed with sex and sweat, each beat an open invitation to be devoured. Laughter bloomed into moans, cheers curdled into gasps. The square itself quivered, not with joy, but with heat.

Devouring, consuming heat.

Bodies clashed. Not danced—collided, twisted, tangled in brutal elegance. Hips snapped into hips, arms laced like rope around waists, thighs locked tight like lovers' limbs mid-thrust. Skirts flared with each turn, revealing flashes of thigh slick with sweat, cotton clinging to soaked skin, the heat rising from the stone street like breath from parted lips. It was a veritable  sea of wet skin; tanned, white, ebony bodies.

Sienna froze mid-sip of her drink, her sharp ears catching the abrupt change in tempo. Villagers flooded the square like a storm surge, laughing, shrieking, grabbing at one another with hands that didn't care who they found. A woman threw herself into the arms of a stranger and ground against his thigh like she needed friction to survive. A man bent low, kissed the inside of a calf mid-twirl, then spun the girl like a coin.

Malik spun past in a hurricane of limbs, shirt half-open, mouth wide in laughter as a human woman jerked him around like a marionette. He saw Sienna and Adam, pointed then shouted with fire-and-wine courage. "You two! Get in here!"

"Not happening!" Sienna snapped, crossing her arms firmly.

But it was too late. Malik, the traitor, sent villagers like heat-seeking missiles toward them. They pounced—sticky hands, wild eyes, drunk off rhythm and celebration. One grabbed Sienna's wrist like a lover claiming a prize. "It's tradition!"

Her protests was lost in the war cry of the music.

Adam barely fought it. Another hand clapped him on the shoulder and shoved him into the fire.

And then they were in it, the rhythm devouring them.

Sienna was caught and spun like a toy, the ground slipping beneath her boots as she whirled into the center of the frenzy. Adam surged toward her, pulled by the tide—and by her. They locked eyes, heat sparking like flint and tinder.

The dance was brutal. Hot. Fast.

Every movement demanded flesh.The rhythm was breathless, almost violent—heels hammering into stone like heartbeats racing toward climax. Sienna was spun, caught, spun again, her braid whipping around like a whip. Adam's hands found her waist and yanked her into a pivot that ground her hips hard into his. Her thigh rode up the curve of his leg, friction burning through the thin fabric. Their breaths clashed, hot and wild.

He took her hand and spun her again, pulling her flush into his body.

Their torsos collided, her wet breasts pressed to his chest, the sharp ridge of his thigh forcing between her legs as the motion continued. The tempo screamed for speed and precision. Their feet obeyed. Their bodies fought. Their bodies flirted. The movement was a seduction turned duel.

Her foot stamped. His twisted. She kicked out and spun, only for him to catch her wrist and drag her back against him with a force that made her gasp. Her hair clung to her temples with sweat. His hand—low, firm, unapologetic—guided her hips into a roll that turned friction into foreplay. It wasn't a dance. It was dry fucking on stone.

The crowd screamed in delight.

The flamenco built into frenzy—clapping, stomping, snapping fingers and gasping mouths. It was fast, so fast it left no room for control. It stripped away inhibition with every beat. Adam's palm flattened against her lower back, pulling her hips tight to his. His breath was in her ear, and her hand had nowhere to go but his chest, his shoulder, the line of his neck.

They spun, dipped, rolled.

He pulled her down until she was nearly bent backward, her braid grazing the street. His other hand held her thigh up against his hip, her leg bent, skirt bunched around her waist. When he pulled her upright, her mouth brushed the line of his throat, and the friction of their bodies sparked between them like flint on steel.

They switched partners briefly—blurs of faces, touches, hips that weren't his. But she found her way back like gravity.

He caught her again. Their bodies slammed. Again. And again. Like the rhythm wanted them to break.

Her lips parted on a breathless noise she couldn't silence, her hands clenching his shoulders as their feet moved like one machine. She pivoted, grinding her backside against his front as he spun behind her. He grabbed her by the hips, yanked her back into him. His mouth brushed her ear.

And then, suddenly, the dancers around them parted, forming a circle that left Sienna and Adam in the center. She froze, her eyes widening as the crowd cheered them on.

"Oh no," she muttered, shaking her head. "No, no, no—"

But Adam simply smiled and extended a hand. "Too late to back out now."

Sienna stared at him, torn between bolting for the edge of the square or committing to the madness. The music surged again, and before she could think better of it, she grabbed his hand.

"Fine," she said, her voice sharp but breathless. "Let's get this over with."

The crowd clapped in time with the music as Adam and Sienna launched into the final stretch of the dance. Her foot slammed down. His body spun hers like a weapon. He dipped her again, this time his hand dragging along the bare skin of her thigh before catching the bend of her knee and hiking her leg high over his hip. 

Their hips ground. Slammed. Matched. His thigh between hers again, harder this time, his hand on her lower back holding her to him like the music said she belonged there. She moved against him, grinding to the rhythm, her breath breaking open in short gasps.

He dipped her again and this time, didn't pull her up right away. His hand on her thigh. Her hand on his chest. Their eyes locked, foreheads nearly touching.

For a split second, the world blurred—only the music and the intensity of his crimson eyes seemed real. Sienna's breath caught, her heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the dance.

His hand tightened.

She twitched, just slightly, against his thigh.

"Not bad, Sienna," He praised her. 

Flushing for reasons unrelated, she turned away. "Don't get used to it!" she snapped.

The music howled into a wild, relentless, orgasmic crescendo.

He spun her one final time, harder than before. Her skirt lifted fully, braid snapping like a whip, and when he reeled her in, their hips crashed together with bruising force. She arched into him, her body alive, alight, aloft.

Then the music stopped.

Silence collapsed.

Then a roar of applause.

They didn't move.

Couldn't.

Their chests rose and fell like bellows, breath stolen. Her body pressed to his like they'd been caught mid-fuck and forgotten how to separate. His hand slid from her back to her hip—slow, searing, final. 

She jolted like she'd been branded.

Then they pulled off.

Sienna glanced at him, her usual sharpness returning. "If you tell anyone I enjoyed that, I'll kill you."

Adam nodded with promise. 

Sienna then turned away fast. Far too fast.

Because the pressure between her legs was real.

Because the heat in her blood hadn't cooled.

Because her thighs still remembered him.

Because her hands still smelled like him.

They were just friends. Only friends.

She said it again and again.

But the music resumed and her body still burned.

+++

"They're celebrating hard," Pelias muttered, his back turned, gaze fixed on the distant glow of torchlight and the faint sound of music filtering through the thick stone walls of his cell.

"They deserve it," Medea replied sharply, standing outside his cell with her arms crossed, eyes fixed on him. Her Thyrsus staff gleamed faintly in the dim light. "They just defeated a petty warlord who tried to usurp their town. Your backer is in another cell, by the way."

"Usurp?" Pelias let out a dry, humorless laugh as he turned to face her. His eyes were shadowed, but the smirk on his lips was sharp. "No, Medea. We weren't usurping. We were reclaiming what was rightfully ours."

"Not yours to take," Medea countered, her tone cutting. "This town belongs to its people."

Pelias tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening. "Do you even know why I wanted this place back?"

"I don't care," she replied flatly, her voice cold.

He ignored her dismissal, stepping closer to the bars of his cell. "You're letting your hatred for me blind you to reality," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Yes, my nephew was a fool for signing off our ancestral home to you and your so-called Color Revolution. And yes, I think your idealistic nonsense is just that—nonsense. But the fact remains: Cius would never have grown this large, this prosperous, if not for the stewardship of my family."

"And past glories give you the right to decide for them now?" Medea shot back, her gaze narrowing.

"They don't know what's coming!" Pelias roared, the sudden outburst echoing through the stone halls.

Medea didn't flinch but fixed him with a piercing stare, her silence inviting him to continue.

"You don't understand," Pelias muttered, his voice dropping as he massaged his temples. "You damned fool—you don't see it."

"See what, Pelias?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm. "Another excuse to justify your greed?"

He ignored the jab, pacing now, his words coming faster, more frantic. "Mistral is falling apart. The Empire—the great, mighty Empire—is dead. The families are moving, jockeying for power like vultures over a carcass. The Atlesians are creeping down from the north, pushing their cold, metallic fingers into our land. Crime syndicates are swallowing entire towns whole, unchallenged. Bandits ebb and flow like a tide, and even the Huntsmen can't keep up."

He stopped pacing, gripping the bars of his cell tightly and leaning forward. "And the East…" His voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent. "The East is burgeoning. I've heard whispers, Medea. Whispers of something… unstoppable. A locust swarm, devouring and burning everything in its wake."

Medea's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or unease.

He smiled. "You know this. You know who I am speaking of."

"Nonsense. The Branwens stay in their lane otherwise Mistral would be forced to act."

​Pelias let out a bark of laughter. "Really? Do you really think those idiot Regents give two damns about us? No, no, they would not care. Why should they, comfortable in their high towers?"

He pressed on, his tone desperate now. "We're heading into a new era, Medea. An era of chaos. A time of warring states. A time of total war."

Medea's jaw tightened, her grip on Thyrsus firm. "Your paranoia doesn't justify your actions. You attacked this town. You burned its fields and spilled its blood—all for your own pride. Don't dress it up as some noble cause."

"My pride?" Pelias spat, his voice venomous. "You think this is about me? I was trying to save them, you blind fool! They don't see what's coming, but I do. And I know what it will take to survive it. They need someone strong. Someone willing to make the hard choices."

"And that someone is you, of course," Medea said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because you've done such a fine job of proving your leadership by being an usurper, aligning with bandits."

Pelias slammed his fist against the bars, the sound reverberating through the room. "You don't get it! You think I'm the villain here, but when the world comes crashing down, when the locusts arrive and everything burns, they'll wish they had someone like me to lead them."

Medea stepped closer, her eyes blazing. "No, Pelias. When the world comes crashing down, they'll need people who fight for them—not for their own power, not for their own pride. For them. You don't understand that, and you never will."

They stared at each other, the air between them crackling with tension. Finally, Pelias leaned back, a bitter smile curling his lips.

"They will all die," he said, his voice quieter now but no less venomous. "You'll see. When the chaos comes, you'll see that I was right. And when that happens, you'll wish you'd listened."

Medea turned on her heel, her robes swirling behind her as she walked away. "Enjoy your cell, Pelias," she said without looking back. "It's the only kingdom you'll ever rule."

Pelias watched her go, his smile fading as the sounds of laughter and music from the square drifted back into the room. He slumped against the wall, his gaze distant.

"You'll see," he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "You'll all see."

Outside, the guards stood still, spears planted like steel promises in the stone as Medea stepped through the doorway. She didn't acknowledge them. Her eyes were cast elsewhere—upward, distant, anywhere but the dark beneath.

She shouldn't have gone down there. Should've left Pelias to rot, to mumble himself into madness. But some part of her had wanted to see it. Wanted to taste the bitter afterglow of his failure. To look the man in the eye and know she was still standing while he was locked behind iron bars, stripped of his borrowed power and bathed in the piss-stench of irrelevance.

But it hadn't satisfied.

Not really.

The air outside was warmer, the wind carrying notes of roasted meat, spiced cider, laughter rolling like thunder over cobbled streets. The square was ablaze with joy, firelight leaping across stone and wood, the people dancing with the kind of abandon that only followed bloodshed and survival. Life, for a fleeting moment, untethered from consequence.

Medea stepped into it. Her boots struck the stone like a metronome, slow and deliberate, her Thyrsus staff tapping against the ground beside her, a whisper of old rites in a world that had long forgotten them.

She told herself she was just passing through.

And then she saw them.

Adam and Sienna.

They were in the center of it, inside the pulse—dancing like they meant to burn through one another. Not swaying, not moving with courtly grace, no. They moved like violence made beautiful, like the rhythm of gods who fucked under stars and left craters behind. The crowd had formed a ring around them, but they danced as if no one else lived, as if the flames flickering across the square were lit only to cast shadow between the lines of their limbs.

The flamenco pounded. Heel to stone, clap, turn, snap. Sienna twisted in a blur of black and red, her skirt flaring high with each pivot, boots stomping like war drums. Her braid whipped across her back, stuck to sweat-glazed skin. She threw her body into Adam's orbit again and again, only to be caught, gripped, spun with brutal precision. His hands were all over her—waist, thigh, lower back—possessive, commanding, as if guiding her through the very edge of restraint.

Their hips collided and rolled to the rhythm, slow grind against the chaos. Her leg wrapped around his, lifted briefly, then slammed down to stomp the earth like a declaration of hunger. Every turn brought them closer. Every crash of their bodies was a silent scream. She moved like she wanted to bruise him with her pelvis. He moved like he already knew what her gasp would sound like if he bit her neck.

Medea froze. Her breath caught, sharp in her throat.

Were they dancing or fucking?

Her throat felt tight. But she could not look away.

Sienna rolled her hips into him again, fluid and obscene. Adam caught her by the small of her back, pulling her tight to him, their torsos pressed so close there was no breath left between. His thigh slipped forward, deep between hers, and Sienna's whole body jolted in reaction. The crowd cheered, but Medea heard nothing.

Her hand clenched around Thyrsus. Then, Medea turned.

She walked.

Ignoring the music, ignoring the cheers. 

She should be happy for him.

She should be proud for him. 

Sienna was by all accounts, a respectable woman.

But why? 

Why did her heart flare with a green fire that burned her veins? 

+++

A/N: This will be the last chapter for the week until the end of it. I really must lock in for my second thesis defense. Once that is over with, the regular updoot scheds will continue.