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starpunched · 7 years

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and enoch walked with god

fandom: fire emblem: awakening pairings: chrom/grima, past chrom/robin warnings: violent imagery, death, blood, semi-explicit sex, consent issues due to power imbalance, religious overtones

and he was not; for god took him.

In the version of things where Chrom bleeds out, Grima shows some form of pity towards the end. Chrom appreciates having company for the end of the world.

read on ao3 or below the cut:

The world ends with a protracted death rattle. The sky burns, the sea rises, but none of it’s instantaneous. There’s time for a slow build, if there’s anyone left to look upon these wonders and despair. It’s not often, but the Fell Dragon can be generous.

Grima pins Chrom’s soon-to-be-corpse to the Grimleal altar, the red sky reflected on Falchion’s edge. “Don’t play coy,” he says through Robin’s lips. “I already know how much you love me.” Chrom grunts. Blood loss limits him to monosyllables.

Fingers that feel like talons trace the angles of Chrom’s jaw. “Come on,” Grima says. “Be honest about this. You’ve never lied to me before.”

Robin is Grima and Grima is Robin and Chrom has no secrets from either, though maybe he wishes he did. This is all too familiar; him with his back to the ground and Robin bent over him like a kind and loving god. Add in the gaping wound. Add in Grima’s simpering smile. The scene played better without all these complications.

Grima forces a leg between Chrom’s knees and kisses his waiting mouth, sucking face more like a teenager than a rebellious divine. It’s déjà vu on a macro level. Robin is Grima and Grima is Robin so of course the Fell Dragon knows the script from the first time they fucked. Chrom’s rabbit heartbeat, Robin tearing his clothes – yeah, this all seems about right.

“I still hate that you dress like this,” Grima says. The clasps designed to hold Chrom’s cape steady unfasten and roll off the edge of the altar. “We could never have a quickie when you take forty minutes to get undressed.” He unsheathes Robin’s stained Levin sword and slices the fabric open – gently, as if another cut would make a difference. Chrom’s head lolls sideways. Blood trickles from the side of his mouth.

True love is all this still giving him an erection.

Falchion clatters to the ground when his belt comes off, Grima working him out of his cotton cocoon. Slowly, gently, even lovingly. Robin’s fingers pausing to trace his scars.

“See?” Grima says, squeezing Chrom’s hard-on with Robin’s hand. “I told you. This body, you love it too much to bear.” It’s not that, Chrom wants to say. It’s Robin he loves; Robin with his thin smile and clever words and selfless devotion, Robin the person, not the shell. “Rrghgf,” he says, and then he’s lightheaded from doing that much.

It’s awful, but Grima’s – Robin’s – laugh still sounds like sunshine to him. Robin’s laugh, Robin’s lips, Robin’s bedroom eyes lined up in two rows of three. Gods. This is just so close to being romantic. Picture Robin with a regular face and both their bodies intact. While he’s at it, picture them both wearing rings.

Grima kisses down the length of Chrom’s chest, pressing his lips against Chrom’s mangled sternum. He comes up bloody, smiling. Chunks of entrails cling to his jawline where Chrom used to kiss him, and he’s still so lovely it hurts.

“He really did love you,” Grima says. He straddles Chrom just below where he killed him, grinds his hips down where Chrom is still whole. “You loved him too, right?” A bubble of blood pops by Chrom’s mouth. Yes, it says, I really did. I really do, still.

Besides the warm blood and stiff dick, Chrom might as well be a corpse. Or a sex doll. Whatever it is Grima’s hoping for here. With one foot in the grave he can’t touch Grima, can’t reach up and grab his hand/ass/thighs like Robin used to want. But he’s good enough, apparently, good enough for Grima to shed his coat like a butterfly shrugs off a chrysalis. One-to-one reenactment. Right down to unfurling his wings.

“Help me,” Grima tells him. Chrom can’t find a way to say no.

Grima’s wings, long and feathered, they frame Chrom’s body like a cage. He smiles. Chrom’s rabbit heart flutters. Then Grima’s frotting against him and peeling off Robin’s pants and yeah, Chrom remembers how it goes after this. They weren’t so desperate the last time this happened, but they weren’t so dead and doomed either. Accepting your mortality isn’t the worst way there is to get off.

Between all the blood and the sweat, they stick together wherever their skin happens to meet. Grima grinding down on Chrom’s cock and dragging his nails down Chrom’s chest, he makes Chrom waste some of his last cloying lifeforce on gasping for breath. Beneath him, Chrom wonders if his death or his orgasm will come first.

Maybe he almost gets there. Seconds away from blowing his load, and that’s when his heart finally stops. Edging on a grander scale.

Grima kisses him. Chrom forgets hypotheticals. Grima kisses him, and Chrom’s thrown back to a cold night in Regna Ferox with him and Robin cuddled for warmth, making excuses to get closer. Robin half-naked and framed in fur robes, asking Chrom if this is okay. Robin kissing him, and Chrom kissing back. This is like that, Gods forgive him. The Fell Dragon makes him remember first love.

“I wish you’d live through this,” Grima sighs into his mouth. “Imagine, me as your husband, you as my bride. Just the two of us, ruling this miserable planet together.” The question just seems cruel.

As if Chrom would hesitate to say yes.

With the sky like it is, the time is whatever anyone claims. Morning. Twilight. Noon. It’s all the same with the sun struck out, all apocalyptic vistas and swirling red clouds. In humanity’s final hours, everything becomes subjective.

This could be their wedding night.

Grima pulls back from Chrom to get a better angle, moaning and gasping with his teeth stained red. Naga’s blood on her worst enemy’s lips. Naga’s brand on the Fell Dragon’s altar. A marriage consummated by outright sacrilege.

Grima rides Chrom like the world is ending and tells him, “Robin wanted to see you wearing a ring.”

Gods forgive him, Chrom doesn’t even try to pull out.

His vision goes spotty when he comes. For a moment he thinks it’s the end, that blowing his load struck him down where blood loss did not. What a fucking way to go that would be. Emmeryn dies a martyr and he croaks mid-ejaculation.

It’s a shame that’s not how it goes. Really. He should have died hereafter, before reality comes in to kick off its shoes. Grima his red-eyed god rises from the altar with semen-streaked thighs. His wings trail behind him; the train for tonight’s wedding gown, more elegant than any white lace. Body fluids and molting feathers instead of silk or satin. Chrom’s mortal wound is a melting pot of all the above.

“You don’t have long, probably,” Grima says. “If only you could get out some last words.”

Chrom realizes, suddenly, there’s a question he still hasn’t asked.

“Robin,” he gurgles. That single word, it’s worth the Herculean effort it takes.

“Oh.” Grima’s six eyes narrow to slivers. “Him. It doesn’t matter, but he was watching.” And that’s it, that’s the ground pulled out from under Chrom and oblivion eating him whole.

Robin, Robin who he loves more than anything, Robin who he’s lost forever, Robin whose heart he’s just broken; Robin was there, Robin is there, and they were so fucking close to a fairytale ending. Put a different man in the driver’s seat. Dredge Robin up from the mind he’s been drowned in. Just give them a do-over with Robin in control, and forget the part where Chrom ever wanted anything else.

He starts to work up to ‘I’m sorry’, but the space beside him is already empty. Robin’s coat lies in a heap nearby on the floor.

On the edge of the Dragon’s Table, loverlooking a world on fire, the lord of the Grimleal spreads his wings.

#fe13 #fire emblem #fire emblem awakening #chrom #grima #robin (fire emblem)#writing

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