#what words could possibly move your hollow hearts and your shallow lives to action

[anarchotahdigism]

i'm still pissed about this The last president got away with an attempted massacre of Congress and a coup and is still a free man, able to exist safely and without fear in public. Large swathes of the military and police were supportive of the coup, were involved in it, and still remain supportive of Trump, as are numerous governors, mayors, state legislators, and practically every white suburbanite it seems. Still, Trump's COVID response was light-years better than Biden's. Cops continue to kill people of color, especially Black people, at increasing rates every year, while receiving more funding Voter repression continues to worsen as concentration camps continue to expand and Biden promises absolutely no limit to the support he'll offer for genocide. Prisons are ever more overcrowded, with officials intentionally maximizing conditions to spread COVID & various towns are experimenting with concentration camps for the homeless. Over a million are dead from COVID with thousands dying every week but the true count may never be known as Biden has ended all COVID mitigation, testing, tracking efforts explicitly at the behest of the rich Having successfully ignored the mass murder of disabled people, America continues to look away as Florida prepares to legalize executing people for being trans in public as other states continue to drop protections for trans people or outright segregate us. Schools are locking down over the most milquetoast campus protests beginning at long fucking last a mere 8 months into a horrific genocide explicitly and personally fueled by Joe Biden and his white supremacy and thousands of people of color have lost their jobs & homes & support networks for speaking out against this genocide. All to say nothing of the tens of thousands of Palestinians massacred, the thousands of Palestinians kidnapped as hostages, and the million or more Palestinians forcibly concentrated in Rafah facing an imminent ground invasion that would be an apocalyptic calamity, as if the past 8 months of daily massacres weren't evil enough. The Zionist occupation, meanwhile, takes swipes daily at other countries and people daring to resist its massacre of the indigenous Palestinians because it is insatiably bloodthirsty & the American response was to tell one of those countries to please just let the occupation attack it so it can politically save face. Unions meanwhile have completely abandoned protecting their workers from COVID & continue to settle for meager crumbs as they outright endorse Biden & the Zionist occupation and genocide of Palestinians. Wage inequality & corporate price gouging is blamed on the supply chain collapse under the weight of unmitigated COVID spread but even that doesn't account for foods increasing to unaffordable levels while food waste continues in stores and restaurants---where the line cook is now one of the deadliest professions in the US due to COVID. Rent continues to balloon and homelessness commensurately rises & evictions resume with absolute fervor, things which Trump's meager COVID policies managed to mitigate. AI is destroying whole sectors as a get-rich-quick scheme using vast databases of stolen content and slave labor, absolutely polluting search engines with completely false information to the point of rendering them nearly useless. Meanwhile, corporations plunder indigenous lands for fossil fuels and heavy metals. As an immunocompromised multiply disabled queer person of color, I have been stuck inside my home relying on my abusers for years now explicitly because of Biden's normalization of fascism and any time I leave for supplies is a potential death sentence because most people are so ardently in favor of eugenics that not only do they refuse to mask but masking has become illegal in some areas and people masking are at risk of assault. But of course, somehow, none of this is "fascism" to a certain type of comfortable leftist. If you can't admit that this is fascism, then you are the enemy of everyone who can and does.

"America isn't fascist! Fascism has a very narrow set of definitions I personally use because a slaving empire built on centuries of genocide which has for almost five years been overtly purging disabled people from society doesn't meet my definition of fascism as I don't give a fuck about eugenics! I'm a very serious radical leftist you should listen to" fuck y'all

[malfoysstilinski]

goodbye to remember | STILES STILINSKI (smut)

MASTERLIST

WORD COUNT: 3.9k 

SUMMARY: Stiles is going off to college and Y/N wants to say goodbye properly to her long-term boyfriend. 

WARNINGS: smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral (male and female receiving), shower sex, dirty talk, vaginal sex, fingering, dominate stiles, slight cum play, praise, multiple orgasms. 

A/N: this was written by me on wattpad in my stiles and harper one shot series (my account is dyiansobrien), but i made it so it’s stiles x reader instead :)

They'd been driving for hours. All Y/N wanted to do was stretch her legs and get some sleep, so she suggested that they pulled over at the nearest motel. Stiles knew it was only sensible, agreeing when they saw the neon lights at the side of the motorway.

Y/N tossed the small bag she had packed for the journey onto the double bed in the middle of the bedroom, stretching her arms as high as she could in the air and yawning loudly. Meanwhile, Stiles was in the bathroom, inspecting whether or not it was clean enough for him to take a shower in it.

"Does it meet your criteria, Stilinski?" The girl called, amusement lacing her tone as she moved over to open the window, letting some fresh air in.

"Just about." His footsteps made Y/N turn around, finding him wandering back into the room while peeling the shirt off of his body.

Stiles revealed his soft abs and the dark hair that lived at the top of his chest and the bottom of his toned stomach. Y/N didn't care if she got caught staring, her teeth absentmindedly clamping down on her bottom lip as she admired how effortlessly attractive her boyfriend was.

Stiles saw. His confidence boosted as he sent her a cocky smirk and moved closer to the y/h/c-haired girl, placing his large hands on her hips. Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, her gaze flickering from the chest that was practically shoved into her face to his eyes.

He was already staring down at her, smiling. Stiles' hazel eyes twinkled as she shifted her hands so that they rested on his chest. They looked dainty against him, her cold fingertips brushing hot skin and making the boy shiver slightly.

"Your hands are freezing," he spoke, his voice barely above a deep murmur.

"Mm, well you're pretty warm," Y/N hummed, running her hands up his chest to snake around his neck, pressing their chests together.

She moved onto her toes so she could press her lips against his. Stiles hummed into her mouth, loving the contact as he kissed back just as eagerly- if not more. His tongue ran across her bottom lip as she opened her mouth, allowing him to deepen the action.

"Y/N," he groaned as he pulled away. "I'm gonna miss this."

Her heart skipped a beat. While she had been thinking about them in the moment, Stiles had been thinking about the future. The future where they would be a time zone and thousands of miles apart. Growing up was a bitch.

"Don't think about that," she whispered against his lips. "This about us. Think about now."

Stiles nodded, his hands sliding up to cup her face. "Shower. Now."

He grabbed her hand, leading her to the bathroom so they could continue their antics elsewhere. His slender fingers reached for the bottom of her jumper, gently pulling it over her head. Her hair sprawled out across her shoulders, a groan escaping Stiles' lips when he realised Y/N wasn't wearing a bra underneath.

Y/N ghosted her hands back down Stiles' chest, her hands brushing past his happy trail until she arrived at the buttons of his khaki pants and started to undo them. Stiles' hand reached down and beneath Y/N’s skirt, then into her panties.

"Stiles," Y/N whimpered, feeling like her body could automatically go limp against him.

He supported her with his other hand, the hand in her underwear dipping down into her folds and finding that she was already wet. Stiles groaned in approval, spreading his fingers and her slick across her, loving the way Y/N gripped his arms tightly.

Stiles' biceps bulged as he dragged his finger from her hole to her clit. He started to rub it agonisingly slow, listening to the shallow breaths coming from the girl in front of him. Her forehead dropped onto his chest and his spare hand reached out, gently grabbing her neck and forcing her back.

"I wanna see your pretty face," Stiles murmured, not stopping the actions on her swelling bud. "I wanna watch your eyes roll back when I make you cum with just my fingers."

"Please, Stiles," Y/N nodded eagerly, feeling the thumb of the hand he had wrapped around her neck start to trace her jawline. "I wanna cum for you."

The hazel-eyed boy quickened the movements on her clit, slipping his thumb into Y/N’s mouth. He nearly moaned out loud as she started to suck around him, her y/c/e eyes wide and innocent. Stiles thumbed at her bud before he pressed his fingers against her hole again.

She was so much wetter than before, her slick coating his fingers as he pushed his middle finger inside her. Y/N’s actions faltered for a moment as Stiles retracted his thumb from her mouth, brushing her spit across her skin as he held her neck again.

"You want another one?" Stiles asked, sliding in and out of her with ease.

"Yes, yes," she nodded quickly, her words failing her for a moment or two. "Please, more. Inside me."

"Anything you ask, princess," Stiles breathed against her ear as he slid another finger inside of her hole.

She already felt so tight around him, her eyes flickering shut as she squeezed his digits unintentionally. Stiles worked to scissor her open better, fingers rubbing her walls and thrusting in and out slowly. Pants were falling from Y/N’s lips.

He knew this wasn't enough for Y/N. They liked it hard and fast, she couldn't just cum from this, no matter how good it felt. Stiles knew what she liked like the back of his hand.

Pretty soon he was adding a third finger and Y/N was gasping, hands slinging behind his neck. Stiles let her fall into him for a moment or two, feeling her legs shake beneath her. They didn't normally do this standing up, but Stiles wanted to see how far he could push her.

His hand was back around her neck as he pushed her against the bathroom wall.

"Eyes on me," Stiles instructed.

He began to thrust the three fingers even faster, much to Y/N’s relief. She squealed when he hit the spot inside her that she loved, her hand reaching to grab his wrist wrapped around her neck.

"Faster," Y/N begged. "Please, faster. Stiles."

Her moans and whimpers pushed him further. Stiles' thumb played with her clit as he fingered her, grip tightening around her neck. Y/N groaned at the sensation, feeling waves of arousal gush from her every now and then. The coil in her stomach was tightening, her hole pulsing around Stiles' digits.

"You gonna cum?" Stiles hummed. "Cum for me, Y/N. Cum around my fingers."

Y/N felt herself let go, her vision going slightly fuzzy as Stiles fucked his fingers into her relentlessly. She nearly screamed, loud yells echoing her lips as he fucked her through her high, leaving the girl a panting mess.

"Good girl," Stiles breathed, watching as her chest heaved as he finally let her fall against him properly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

He let Y/N catch her breath for a few moments before he started to edge them towards the shower. Stiles climbed into the tub before he grabbed Y/N and lifted her inside, steadying her from where her legs were slightly shaking. He reached for the dial and turned the water on, the two of them immediately getting sprayed by the weak pressure of the motel shower.

Y/N wanted to repay Stiles, her hands running down his hips before her right hand wrapped around his cock. Stiles hissed out in a mixture of pleasure and surprise, looking down as he watched her expertly pump his length. She was looking him in the eye like she was doing nothing wrong, the innocent look on her face making Stiles groan.

He leaned down and pressed their lips together, hungrily kissing her as he felt his cock grow harder in her touch. Her small hands felt much better than his own, her thumb swiping at the precum as it leaked from excitement. Her other hand moved down to cup his balls, gently playing with them and Stiles had to pull away to moan, the sound like music to Y/N’s ears.

Naturally, she loved to be the one beneath Stiles, but she couldn't deny that she loved making him putty in her hands. Y/N worked her hand up and down his shaft before she slowly dropped down onto her knees, finding herself right in front of his manhood. One of Stiles' hands reached around to hold her hair while the other was planted against the tiled wall, keeping him stable.

"Fuck, Y/N," he moaned.

He looked down, wishing he could take a picture of the sight in front of him as Y/N took the tip of his cock into his mouth, playing with him as she slowly worked her hand up and down the rest of his length. As she started to hollow her cheeks and take more of him inside her mouth, Stiles' body tensed and he released shuddering sounds, making Y/N look up.

He had his head tilted back in pleasure, a large hand yanking her hair a little tighter when she took him in as far as she possibly could. Y/N ended nearly all seven and a half inches in her mouth, bobbing her head and ignoring the slurping sounds that could be heard over the echoing of the water crashing around them and Stiles' breathy moans.

"Fuck, just like that," Stiles kept repeating, absentmindedly thrusting his hips a little.

Y/N held onto his hips hollowing her cheeks as she pulled off of him. "Fuck my mouth," she pleaded with him.

Stiles swore he could have cum just from her words. None of their friends would have ever imagined them having such a kinky sex life, but their relationship wasn't just cuddling and watching films. They were horny teenagers who trusted each other perhaps too much and had been together for years, all they wanted to do was experiment with each other.

He obeyed what Y/N had said, holding the back of Y/N’s head to keep her still. She kept her mouth open for him and started to thrust back and forth, listening to her slight choking sounds as she swallowed around him every now and then, squeezing his cock and pushing him further and further towards his climax. Stiles could feel himself about to cum already, and she'd only been sucking his cock about six minutes.

"I'm gonna cum," Stiles groaned. "Where do you want it?"

Y/N took one hand off of his hip to pat her face and Stiles nearly grinned, thrusting a few more times before he quickly pulled out of her warm mouth. He jerked his cock a few times and groaned loudly as his cum spurted from the tip, washing over Y/N’s face and neck. Stiles didn't stop until he was sure there was no cum left, feeling himself grow soft.

Y/N hummed as she stood up from her knees, wiping the cum from her face with her fingertips and guiding them into her mouth. Stiles groaned when she put them in her mouth and started to suck, wondering if Y/N could get anymore perfect. The water was starting to wash his cum away from her skin, but he reached for a bit on her cheek and put his finger in her mouth, letting her suck that too. She did it-- eagerly.

Stiles could feel himself growing hard again and he had only cum a minute ago. He was pretty sure he would never get tired of fucking Y/N. It was always something different. She was always doing something new to surprise him, or he was always begging to try a new position or kink he'd seen online. Y/N was always so willing too.

It was all too perfect.

He pressed Y/N against the wall and tangled themselves together once more, letting the water flow down their naked bodies. One of Stiles' large palms reached to cup Y/N’s breast, squeezing it slightly before he started to tease at her nipple, making her back arch off of the tiles.

Their chests pressed against each other and Y/N groaned at the feeling of her nipples against Stiles' bare skin. His hands moved down her back and grabbed her ass, squeezing her cheeks before he smacked one. She jolted against him.

"I love your ass," Stiles murmured against her ear. "And your beautiful tits. And your hips."

His hands travelled across her skin, igniting flames with his fingertips. Y/N grabbed his hand before he could cup her breast again, sending him a pleading look.

"No more teasing, Stiles. Please," she begged.

She brought his large hand down to her pussy, making him cup it. Stiles had to hold back a groan as he felt how soaked she was, tracing his finger back through Y/N’s folds. The girl could never get enough— she couldn't have sex unless she had multiple orgasms, whether it was from his actual cock inside her or if he used his hands and mouth.

"So wet for me," Stiles said, dragging his finger back and forth.

He used his other hand to reach up and turn the shower off before he picked her up by her backside. Y/N squealed a little, wrapping her legs around him as Stiles brought them out of the bathroom and headed to the bed.

He flung her down onto the mattress and then used his arms to swipe their belongings onto the floor, wincing when he heard what sounded like a phone smacking the carpet.

Y/N shot him a look, but he just shrugged and kneeled down onto the floor, grabbing Y/N’s thighs. Stiles yanked her towards the edge of the bed and Y/N knew to rest her legs on his shoulders as his fingers worked at her pussy once more.

"You want my tongue this time?" He asked huskily.

When Y/N whimpered but didn't reply, Stiles pulled his hand back and then smacked her clit— not too hard but enough to send a jolt of pain and pleasure through the girl who whispered again, but even louder.

"Answer me," Stiles ordered.

"Yes, yes, yes," Y/N agreed, nodding her head furiously. "Please fuck me with your tongue, Stiles. Let me cum on your tongue."

"Mhm," he groaned, hot breath hitting her soaking heat. "Good girl."

Y/N’s back arched when she felt his tongue plant itself against her pussy. It moved flat through her folds, his button nose nuzzling against her clit and causing her to whimper. Stiles worked his way up from the hole to her clit and when he found the swollen nub, he made swirling motions with his tongue around it, teasing her.

"Please," she panted, hands detaching from the sheets to tangle in Stiles' dark hair, tugging a little.

He moaned against her, the vibrations making Y/N’s legs shake a little and her breathy whimpers grew even louder and less spaced out. Her head was spinning when his mouth finally closed around her clit, sucking and nibbling. He lapped up all of her juices as they came, holding her hips down when she couldn't stop arching her back.

Stiles smoothed his hands up and down her stomach, reaching up to grab her breasts whilst he worked on her clit with his mouth. Y/N felt like she could cry as his fingers pinched at her nipples, large palms squeezing and cupping her tits. She threw her head back and released a loud moan when Stiles nibbled slightly on her, feeling herself grow even wetter, her slick starting to drip down her thighs.

When Stiles was sure that she was close, her breaths less even and her legs squeezing tighter against the sides of his head, he pulled away, making Y/N groan loudly in disbelief. She lay there panting, her hands releasing his hair to tangle with the sheets. Stiles stood up over her, his nearly six-foot figure looming as he swiped at his lips with his fingers and sucked on them a little.

"Mhm," he groaned. "You taste so good, baby."

Y/N’s eyes were a little wide at the action and she leaned up onto her knees at the flash of lightning, wrapping her arms around Stiles' neck. The Stilinski boy barely had a chance to react before she was kissing him hard on the lips and tugging him back down onto the bed. His elbows stopped himself from completely crushing her, but their bodies were still pressed against one another, all sweaty and hot.

Y/N could feel his hard-on pressing against her pussy and her stomach and she rocked her hips up a little to try and cause more friction. Stiles pulled away to hiss a little, looking down at their bodies where his precum had smeared against her skin.

"Fuck me, Stiles," Y/N pleaded. "Just please get inside me. Wanna feel you."

"Whatever you want, princess," Stiles replied, planting one last kiss to her forehead before he pulled back and grabbed his length.

He pumped it a few times before he started to run the head of his cock through Y/N’s folds, collecting all of her slick. Y/N squirmed when he brushed her clit with his dick, groaning when he smacked it against her. Stiles was holding back too, she could tell he wanted to be inside her more than anything right now, so he was going to end up giving in very soon.

After he teased her for a couple of seconds longer, Stiles lined himself up with her hole and pushed the tip inside, watching as Y/N gasped. He groaned, his eyes rolling back into his head as he slid in all of the way, right to the hilt and stilling. The girl beneath him sucked a breath in, arms wrapping back around him at the feeling of being so full. She loved it-- Stiles fit her so comfortably like they were made for one another.

Stiles leaned back down and kissed her lips sweetly, the pair just making out for about a minute before Stiles started to rock against her. Y/N whined at the feeling against her clit, looking down to see Stiles pull out and then thrust back in slowly, his cock glistening in her arousal. Stiles' fingers moved out to trace her skin, all of the curves of her body and the scars that she had- the gunshot scar on her shoulder from Matt, the scratches she had from being thrown around by the Ghost Riders before.

"So beautiful," Stiles mumbled, kissing her shoulder and then working his way up to her neck.

Y/N tilted her neck to the side, hands moving to his back as he began to kiss her in the place she loved the most. His thrusts were relatively slow and loving as he kissed and sucked and nibbled at her skin, the sensation making Y/N so much wetter. It was so easy for him to slide in and out of her, she felt so warm and wet. Y/N’s nails were gliding gently up and down Stiles back, nowhere near enough to leave marks but to tickle a little.

Once he'd left a few dark marks against Y/N’s delicate skin, Stiles blew some air onto them and made her clench her eyes shut. He decided that she looked simply stunning beneath him like this, his large hands holding her down as she willingly gave into him, taking and giving everything she could offer to him. Her head hid in his shoulder as he started to pick up the pace a little more, thrusting in and out of her soaking pussy quicker.

"More," Y/N whispered.

"Up," Stiles replied, pulling out of her and making her pout a little.

She hated feeling so empty, but she knew exactly what Stiles wanted. Y/N flipped back so that she was on her hands and knees, arching her back so that her ass was high in the air and the rest of her body was as flat against the mattress as she could get. Stiles smirked at the sight, running his hands up and down her back and tapping his fingers, marvelling at the sight of his beautiful girlfriend.

He thrust back into her. "So tight for me," Stiles moaned, listening to her breathy whimpers. "Does my cock feel good inside you, baby? Who's the only one that can make you feel like this? The only one that gets to see you like this?"

"You, Stiles," Y/N replied quickly, feeling him thrust harder and faster at her words. "You're the only person that can make me cum so hard and get me this wet. It's all for you."

Her boyfriend seemed to appreciate her words, groaning from behind her and tightening his grip on her hips. Y/N gripped the sheets in front of her, her entire body rocking with his harsh thrusts as he slid in and out of her. Each time felt better than the last, the coil in her stomach starting to tighten already. Stiles knew her like the back of his hand and he knew that even if she liked this, she couldn't cum from just his dick inside her.

His slender fingers were sliding beneath her and he yanked her up so that she was pressed against his chest which was sweaty. His other hand reached in between them and he started to make circular motions on Y/N’s sensitive clit. The girl cried out in surprise, her knees starting to tremble from where she kneeled upon them.

"Are you gonna cum again?" Stiles whispered against her ear.

Y/N nodded rapidly. "So close, Stiles. Please."

He jerked his finger in the right way, the combination of his hand and his cock driving Y/N over the edge. Stiles had to hold her together as she came undone around him, her walls clamping down on his member that continued to drive in and out of her. Her pornographic moans and the way she called his name sent Stiles tumbling quickly over the edge too.

"Y/N. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Stiles groaned, his thrusts growing uneven and sloppy as he came.

Y/N whimpered at how sensitive she felt, clenching around Stiles as he came inside her, his seed spilling and coating her walls. He finally released her, letting her fall down onto the mattress. Stiles pulled out and fell back down next to her, the two of them panting heavily.

When he rolled onto his back, Y/N moved so that she was tucked into his arm, both still breathing heavily as they looked up at the ceiling. Stiles leaned down and pressed a short kiss to the side of her head a few minutes later.

"That was amazing, baby," Stiles murmured.

"Mhm," Y/N agreed. "We should probably actually shower now, huh?"

The hazel-eyed boy laughed and pulled her closer. "Probably."

[yeoldontknow]

The Morning After | (M)

Author’s Note: welcome back to chanvember! i hope you enjoy this piece <3 its been a while since ive written smut for him and given how the last time went over, ive been very nervous about this. so i hope everyone has a great time! | this work features graphic sexual content and themes not suitable for an audience under the age of 18. please do not read if any of the warnings make you uncomfortable or if you under 18. Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: smut; romance; friends to lovers!au; fluff; angst; au Summary: For the last several months, every time you and Chanyeol get drunk you wind up in bed together. At this point, you’ve come to expect it - it happens like clockwork. But now, your feelings for him have developed into something much stronger than friendship. Now, you’re not sure you can carry one pretending to be fine with this arrangement. Rating: NC-17 Warnings: explicit sex; explicit language; unprotected sex; creampie; sex on a kitchen counter for all to see (but the stove isnt on; safety first!); dirty talk; drinking games; jongdae possibly passed out in the snow Word Count: 11K

The heat of his body pressed against yours is what wakes you, the full length of his limbs nestled against your skin, seeking security. 

Chanyeol is needy in sleep, always curled against you in the hopes of sharing warmth, contact, and affection. Waking up beside him, held so tightly in his arms, his breath cascading over your neck, is your favourite part of this non-arrangement - the glory of waking up and feeling wanted. He’s good at it, too, tall enough and warm enough to make you feel special, protected; and enough to make you want him him down to your soul, as though you could ever want him less. 

But this, you know, is also your least favourite part of waking up with him - apart from waking up at all. The gift of waking up feeling held, protected, needed, down to your very bones, is a blessing most people savor, something they would hold onto with both hands, reluctant to release even after morning breaks. But you, you know what it means, and it’s the meaning that stings, even if it’s shallow. Being held like this makes it <i>hard.</i> It makes it hard to leave, makes it hard to remember who you are and what you are, feeling special only to remember these fleeting moments don’t last. 

With other people, you’ve grown accustomed to waking up and walking away - in fact, you relish the act of leaving, body sated and mind empty, your craving reduced, in these morning hours, to coffee and solitude, with no room for anything else. With other people, you disappear as though it is your magical blessing, body already awake before dawn, footsteps quiet, and smile reserved for yourself, for the satisfaction that comes from liberating yourself from men you don’t really want.

For you, walking away is easy, a sacred talent of empowerment, but, with Chanyeol waking up hurts.

The sun seeps through the linen of the curtains, and you sigh, blinking resolutely at the yellow hue fully aware you’ve missed the dawn, and thus missed your escape. Mouth dry, the alcohol from the night before lingers on your tongue, much the same way his hand lingers on your stomach, palm flat as if to hold the totality of you. His other arm rests beneath your neck, cradling you close, protective, while still ensuring you are comfortable enough to sleep. 

Biting your lip, you press back against him, feeling the hardness of his erection rub against the curve of your ass, as much a reminder of his anatomy as it is a phantom memory of the previous night, the purposeless celebration, and the way you fell to bed together, acting as though you were surprised and unprepared.

Chanyeol was already drunk when he found you, stumbling into the living room with a smile on his face that spoke of yearning, Your own motor skills had been delayed by the alcohol in your system, a frown set on your face as you attempted to figure out the HDMI settings needed to use the Nintendo Switch the Air BnB had so generously provided. It was for Mario Kart, you complained, eyes wide and pleading with Chanyeol’s savant capabilities with wires and technology. He had to help you. 

But he didn’t want to. He said this with a pout, reaching for your neck and shoulder with messy inelegance, looking bereft, the beanie on his head too large for his cheeks, giving him the appearance of someone too innocent for his age. The drinking games had gone poorly, bad enough to hurt his pride, and he was seeking consolation for his losses. He needed you, he said, adamant and desperate, pleading even though he’d never admit it, looking so young and so small and so terribly needy. 

Hands on your hips, you grimaced, told him he’d only get comfort if he helped you, annoyed because he certainly did not need any comfort. He was terrible at drinking games, the only games he could never master because he could never master his drink, and he should know this, you said. He’s smart enough to know. 

You don’t remember how his lips found yours. If you’re being honest, you rarely ever remember. Every time, you never truly remember much beyond the blinding haze of desire that floods your limbs whenever you look at him, but you remember the feeling. It was so unlike the kisses he usually gives you when he’s this far gone, hands seeming to remember where you like them best and lips moving with an assured confidence, as though he no longer needed permission - as though kissing you was something that came naturally, and without hesitation.

Chanyeol walked you up the stairs, one at a time before pulling away from your lips with a frown, and lifted you, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you the rest of the way.

‘Fuck off.’ A weak protest, one that you mumbled against his lips. ‘I’m too heavy.’

‘No, you’re not. Shut up.’

He resumed kissing you, kissed you even as he pushed through your assigned room, the room you staked claim in by dropping your bags not seven hours previous. You were glad you’ve moved them to the floor. 

It was messy, from there, his hands at your jeans and pulling them down while your fingers worked at his belt - too complicated, you’d said, and he’d laughed. His mouth found your core, licking a full line up your slit before diving inside. He moaned on contact and so did you, not bothering to be quiet. Downstairs, Jongdae yelled victoriously - another win. In bed, you gripped Chanyeol’s hair with one hand and the bed sheets with another, feeling victorious yourself as you rolling up against his face until he kissed your clit and told you not to come. 

The thickness of his girth still resonates between your legs, stretching you to a fullness your body always remembers, but can never replicate with your own hand and fingers, not even your vibrator. He fucked into you while he called you love, and baby, and perfect, kissing at your breasts as he fucked you hard enough for your hips to hurt. He came inside you, too, a new development that makes you grateful you’ve been taking birth control, a new development that makes your thighs clench in memory. Overwhelmed by his orgasm, he moaned into your neck, biting down on the flesh until he shuddered to a halt, cock still twitching inside you.

He kissed and kissed at the mark, apologizing for the redness and any pain, kissing at your lips only when you told him it didn’t hurt too much, and that you liked it. 

Your hand finds the mark now, careful not to disturb him. Running your fingers over the mark, the bumps and indents of his teeth still remain and you still feel him, the pain gone and leaving with it a memory of heat and wanting, a tattoo of recollection that makes your chest feel tight. It’s strange, you think, to feel marked and claimed without anyone truly wanting the possession of you, a feeling that makes you feel lonely rather than alone. 

Turning over to look at him, making sure your do so lightly, you eyes catch sight of his tattoos, the dark lines and art casting shadows on the veins and always so tantalizing to touch. Cuddling closer, you run your hands through his hair, aware that an action like this is both too affectionate and too risky, but you find it can’t be helped.

A few months ago, you discovered that he enjoys having his hair stroked, though you never do so when he's sober and certainly not when he's awake. But when he's sleeping, and you've been lucky enough to have him, he cuddles into your touch, whining with a puff of air through his lips. He's needy, your favourite thing to learn about him - a man so notoriously detached from connection and romance craves it with all of himself when his guard is down, and when he doesn't know he wants it at all. 

The sun hits his skin in ways it seems to avoid your other partners. Lately, you've woken up with other people and watched the way the sun carves edges into their skin that makes you feel hollow. It does not make them ugly, just harsh, illuminating all the reasons they aren't what you want, only just what you needed - briefly and for a limited amount of time. On Chanyeol, the sun finds a home, turns the tips of his ears pink and adds dimension to the dark strands of his hair, the curls turning from a deep brown, almost black, to a rich chocolate, turning him amber and amber, and turning your heart to amber, frozen in the single moment of your admiration. 

His eyelashes splay over his cheeks as he sleeps, a slight flush of rose smeared against the bone, and you smile, knowing that even under blankets with another person the heat is sweltering, You're warm too, always a little too warm with him, but for some reason you don't mind. Always, you push yourself away in bed, careful not to touch or be touched after you've had your fill, looking forward to leaving but not really sleeping, chest filled with great disdain for accidental contact. 

With Chanyeol, sleep comes easily, easier than it does even when you're on your own, and so you've learned to hate leaving - often already left, body finally relaxed into a state of comfort with him, rousing only when he has departed entirely and craving the lack.

Having spent too long thinking around and through him, beyond comparison and into craving, Chanyeol's eyes begin to flutter with the first traces of wakefulness. Feeling adrenaline seep into your veins, you pull your hand away, dropping it carefully on the pillow beside your head and closing your eyes, hoping he does not notice or feel your movement.

For a moment, there is only silence. Silence and the deep, low growl that always accompanies Chanyeol's yawns. Biting the inside of your cheek, you force yourself not to smile, always amused by the sound and the way it resonates around the room, long and aching as though he pulled it from deep within his soul. When he's quiet again, the sudden lack of noise, only his even, smooth breaths remaining, feels painful, hair on your arms standing on edge, defying the weight of expectation.

'Really?' Chanyeol's voice comes as a soft mumble, a whisper of reverence that makes your chest flush. You're glad to be covered by the blankets, the pink heat of it hidden from view. 'Again?' 

Not a trace of displeasure tints his voice, the smile he wears offering a gentle caress to the cadence of his tone. If you could, you'd sigh in the breadth and the wake of it, luxuriating in the way his smile can never be hidden, not even by the darkness of your closed eyes and the icy cruelty of the morning sun. Chanyeol drips everywhere, all over you and into your soul, smiling to himself in his own amusement and smiling into your spirit, giving you wings enough to feel carried through the day. 

It's enough to make you want to stay. It's enough to make you think it could be easy. 

But he moves under the sheets and the spell is broken, reality scratching at your shoulders, reminding you this kind of softness is never reserved solely for you, especially not when you’re sober. 

You focus on keeping your eyes calm and still beneath your eyelids, waiting for him to depart and counting down the seconds to the loss of his warmth, his touch, and his attention. Idly, you wonder if you’ve ever waited long enough to wake up with him, realizing that there is no record time to make it to, no goal to achieve before the norm feels broken. By missing the dawn and having your fill, you’ve already broken the mold, and now you must start over, from nothing and from everything all at once.

The pillows and the sheets wrinkle, bed shaking with the motion of his long limbs, but the warmth doesn’t leave you. Instead, it comes closer, one of his legs sliding between yours, the bone of his hip meeting the curve of your stomach as he curls into you. Chanyeol brings himself closer, humming with a rumble of contented bliss, and your heart lurches into your throat.

A lump forms. Panic rises. You feel yourself drawn into him by your own accord, lured, like always, just as a magnet to its pole, to the cascade of affection radiating from his soul. And it would be so easy to give in, to let yourself fall back asleep and pretend you didn’t feel him, you never felt him, that this whole time it was him who was preparing to leave, but you can’t. 

To let it continue would only be a detriment to your soul and to your heart. And so, however unwillingly in the effort of self-preservation, you furrow your brow, assume the imagined expression of a person learning to greet the day, and open your eyes, met, instantly, with the kind tenderness of his stare.

Blinking at him twice, you let your eyes adjust - to his brightness, to the feeling of seeing him see you first, before anything else, and to the notion that he has not moved. Chanyeol does not pull away, not even a little.

'Morning,’ he whispers, settling deeper into the pillow, getting comfortable.

Strands of hair fall into his eyes, your fingers twitching, straining with the effort of keeping still and refraining from wiping it away. Chanyeol narrows his eyes and blows them off his forehead instead, shaping his lips into a perfect circle. The air leaves your lungs, leaves you breathless, transfixed by their pink softness.

'Hi,’ you manage, the word barely more than a murmured breath of acknowledgement. 

He chuckles, wiggling his toes against the bed. The muscles in the leg caught between yours flex, and you wait for him to comment on the intimacy of this position, but he does not. 'Day one and we're already at it.'

It’s your turn to laugh, looking away from him, sheepish. 'We've been making a habit out of this.'

'We?' he exclaims in mock offense. 'I think you mean you?'

'Me?' you laugh. 'You were the one all sad and looking for a kiss after you lost, what? Kings? Beer pong? Whatever the fuck you were playing.’ Letting your smile fall into a pout, you regard him with wide eyes, teasing. ‘Jae and I just wanted to play Mario Kart.'

'I didn't need a kiss,' he whines childishly. 'I wanted a hug or something. If you didn't give me one I would have been fine.'

Rolling your eyes, you click your tongue. 'You are literally the least self aware person on this planet.' Gasping, Chanyeol wiggles in the bed in protest, and you press your hands against his chest, laughing. 'Calm down, you know you are! How do you do that?'

With a deep pout and a huff, Chanyeol stops his fussing and lets silence fall over the room once more. He doesn’t make any motions to leave, and you keep your eyes on his muscles, waiting for any sign of abrupt departure, keeping yourself on edge. Your hand leaves his chest, skin still tingling with the contact, bringing it under the sheets to press your nails into you leg, hoping to erase the sensation. 

In all his fussing, Chanyeol has brought his chest as close to yours as he can, close enough one deep inhale on your part would press your breasts against his sternum, and so the motion of your hand beneath sheets, accidentally and inadvertently, grazes against his side. Eyes going wide, Chanyeol pushes away, albeit not far, a playful smile of protest tugging at his lips.

'Stop!' he yelps, though it falls away with little protest, revealing an undercurrent in his tone than sends a shiver down your spine. 'That tickles!'

Drunk on the power of this moment, you smirk. 'You big baby, I didn't do anything!'

Even as it happens, you can feel this moment and the weight it carries, the change it means to deliver. Biting your lip, you watch as Chanyeol remains still, expectant, eyes alive with a hunger that keeps you nervous and, conversely, invigorated, driven to know what a look like this could mean. Something about this look speaks of desire, longing, and encouragement, and so you act quickly, with little thought at all, hooking your leg over his hip to flip him on his back. 

Straddling his hips, you bring both your hands to his sides, and tickle him, keeping your thighs locked on either side of him as he fights. 

Loud in general, Chanyeol’s laugh is thunder against your skin, an earthquake that battles at your sternum, demanding entry to your heart. His laughter his loud and so is his yell, the yell of defeat he releases as he grips your hips, head thrown back and eyes closed, smile on his face bordering in ecstasy. 

But he yells, and in the aftermath, you both pause, halting your motions, watching one another in abject shock.

People have seen you - everyone sharing this Air BnB with you has seen you with him. Waking up with Chanyeol is not new, hardly a new development that could surprise anyone.

The first time you kissed, you were both wasted - exceptionally, beautifully caught in the throws of a haze that made you both ravenous for attention. It had been Baekhyun's drunken suggestion, tossed nonchalantly into the wind as a way to break the tension and ensure you both received what you were looking for, thus leaving everyone else alone. In a way, your lips on Chanyeol was a drunk form of entertainment, a way to prove to everyone, and to yourself, that friends - best friends - could kiss and make out and still come away unchanged, perhaps closer, delighted that boundaries had been blurred without any real consequences.

And so you kissed him with vigor, kissed him hard and long, mostly to make everyone laugh or gasp, waiting for a reaction, but partly, and in many ways most of all, to prove to yourself that you could. You kissed him as a means to prove to your aching heart that the torch it had been carrying and feeling ultimately meant nothing and that, with one taste of Chanyeol's lips, you would be sated and disinterested, glad to have someone to keep you comfortable when your skin flares with desire for a pair of hands.

The problem, in the end, was that you kissed Chanyeol and then seemed to never stop. 

The second time, it escalated to his fingers against your waistband, teasing the skin while he sucked your bottom lip, hesitation in his touch but not his tongue.

The third time, he'd left marks on your shoulder and your teeth had marred his neck purple, and everyone had noticed, your foundation not a match for his complexion; your breasts ached with the feel of his palms for days, desperate to feel the force of his touch once more.

The fourth time, he'd asked you if you wanted him to stop, lips wet with your kisses and the traces of his beer, eyes wide and affectionate, and aware enough to be concerned. His hands lingered at the waistband of your sweats, gripping the fabric tightly, while your legs lingered at his hips, your shirt discarded somewhere across the room. You told him no, don’t stop. You never wanted him to stop. 

The fifth time he did not ask if you wanted him to stop. It was clear you didn't want him to, not with your mouth around his cock. He paid you back in kind with three fingers in your cunt and his lips kissing against yours, smirking possessively until your came around his knuckles. You watch, cheeks red and soul blanched, as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes on yours the whole time.

The sixth time, there was no room for words - not with the way he gasped as he fucked into you, and not between the moans he pulled from your throat with each snap of his hips. There were no words after the orgasm, your body still shuddering against his while he held you, his own lips pressing soothing kisses to your neck and chest, right above your heart.

There hasn't been room for words since, not for at least nine months, perhaps even longer - you've really only started counting the times where you woke up with him, not the times your mouths found one another accidentally on purpose. 

And so, everyone is aware of this silent agreement - all agreeing silently not to talk about it because the tension always seems to disappear in the morning. But with Chanyeol looking up at you now, eyes wide and cheeks blanched, you know he's not ready for someone to see you in bed. Something about being found feels to real, to raw, and you’re not sure either of you are ready to bear that cross. 

Your heart sinks. Your mind races. You realize this is why it’s best to leave, even if it hurts.

Chanyeol rolls his hips up into yours, his erection pressing against your core as a reminder you both are naked and wrapped against one another in the sheets. His hands grip tightly at your hips, your own hands pressed against his sides, careful not to move, as he rolls up against you once more. Eyes falling closed, you remind yourself this is his favourite position. He’s said as much, declaring it so because he gets to kiss you, keep his hands on your breasts, and wear you like armor - his drunken words six months ago when you came so hard around him you thought the prison of your bones had been shattered.

Grinding down onto him, responding in kind to his movement, you wait to see if he will meet your pressure, but he doesn’t. Chanyeol keeps still, trapped in a state of wait but for what you can’t be sure. Mind fogged and heart starting to feel like glass, you can never seem to truly sense the needs of his body when you’re sober - your own mind and body wrought with the pleasure it feels and the awareness that it still feels good, perhaps even feels best, without the burning edge of alcohol laced through the satisfaction. 

For what feels like too long, Chanyeol doesn’t move, his hands on yours an anchor that only serves to remind you of all the ways your feelings and his touches are a problem.

'Sorry,' you say, keeping your voice even and clear. 'I didn't mean for that to get loud.'

Sliding off his hips, you don’t bother remaining in bed, too awake to let yourself pretend anymore. Throwing your legs over the side, you look down, seeing the clothes you’d thrown in your haste. The memory of how Chanyeol hadn’t bothered to fully remove his jeans, sliding them down his thighs enough to push inside you turning your mouth dry. With no trace of your underwear and the nearest thing being your shirt, you sigh and rise to a stand, putting it on with a stretch. The hem of the shirt just falls to the curve of your ass, rising up slightly each move of your arms overhead. 

Outside the window, endless white seems to filter through the gaps, a too bright sheen battling against the sun. The hardwood floors sting their chill against your toes, and you hug yourself in a shiver, glad for the snap of winter to keep you grounded and level headed. 

'You're not gonna put underwear on?' Chanyeol asks, breaking the silence with a tight voice. 

'Calm down,’ you laugh, keeping your chastisement soft. Walking away from the bed, your nod in a vague direction. 'My bag's over there, I'm not going far.'

Crossing in front of the footboard, you turn to look at him over your shoulder. He’s pushed himself up against the pillows, erection tenting the sheets gathered at his waist as he watches you, pupils dilated and jaw tense. His hands remain nowhere insight, body still and chest flushed. It’s the sort of vision that will stay with you long after the morning has passed, taking possession of this moment with greedy hands and fingers, and you smile, unsure how the expression truly looks, not bothering to mask any of your emotions, if only for this moment. 

Chanyeol’s head tips back, nostrils flaring as he exposes more of his neck in the effort of appearing long, powerful, imposing. Wetness gathers at your core once more, threatening to glide onto your thighs from the force of your desire, and you turn away from him, looking back out the window, hoping for a distraction. 

'It snowed last night,’ you muse, hoping the white blanket beyond the curtains can help ease the racing of your heart, the empty expanse soothing.

'Must be why I slept so well.’ Chanyeol’s words are heavy, thick, and you try not to focus on the sound, aware of the effect it will have on the clenching of your thighs. 'Finally cold enough for your body heat.'

Rolling your eyes, you shift your gaze from the window and crouch in front of your suitcase, careful not to bed over or to tease. 'You say that like you're not a personal heater,’ you counter, rifling through to find your favourite hoodie. ‘Or like you don't actually sleep well after you've fucked me.'

Chanyeol huffs, sounding petulant. 'It's the orgasm.' 

'Well,' you laugh, sliding on your underwear with a sway of your hips, 'at least I still get to say I'm responsible.'

Pulling your hoodie over your head, you immediately regret your choice. Chanyeol was the last person to borrow this, the fabric having taken on his sent - or, maybe, it was his to begin with, and you had stolen it. It’s been passed between you both so many times neither of you really remember who has rightful possession, sharing it with mutual custody. The problem, now, is that it smells like him and is too warm, too thick, for the bedroom, the heaviness of both these things making you feel light headed.

'I'm gonna go make brunch,’ you announce, giving yourself an escape as you turn to face him once more. 'Can I expect your help with the pancakes?'

Head tipped back against the headboard, he nods minutely. 'Yeah, just need a minute.' 

Humming in a noise of acknowledgement, you duck out of the room, considering all the lines you’ve crossed from the moment you opened your eyes. Too much touching, too much laughing, too close - far closer than you’ve ever been while sober, blurring the limits and boundaries you’ve defined for yourself. The taste of alcohol lingers on your tongue, but it does not linger in your blood, aware that the choices you made this morning were done with clear, selfish rationality. 

Walking down the stairs, you’re glad for the distance you put between one another, giving himself time to think and yourself time to rebuild your armor. 

The kitchen is far cleaner than you remember it being, glancing over to the open expanse of the living room to see this, too, has been cleaned. Smiling, you make note to thank Minseok and Jae, both early risers who likely sorted most of the mess before taking their morning run together. In a distant room, Baekhyun snores, though there remains no sign of Jongdae, the door to his room fully open and bed empty when you passed. Briefly, you wonder if this will be like the time you found him on the lawn in college, passed out with a bottle of beer in one hand and a smile on his face.

The thought makes you smile, but you imagine since there’s snow, if this did happen, he would have woken up and moved himself somewhere warm - you trust him at least enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

You’re grateful for the silence of the house as you begin to cook, the one thing that truly relaxes you, an automatic response of your hands married to your eyes,   having long surpassed the need to measure, plan, or time your actions. Chopping garlic, your hands do the work for you while your mind walks, travels far back beyond the first time you kissed Chanyeol, looking for clear moment to define when your feelings changed.

Still, you come up empty, aware that it likely wasn’t any one thing that turned your feelings of love from platonic endearment to deep rooted longing. Rather, it was a lot of little things that accumulated over time. Intimacy is a thing that is gained, gathering not unlike the snow during a storm, piling until you notice it and until it sticks - until, in the end, you find yourself buried, unwilling and unable to moved back to your prior state, not unless the season of your heart changes. 

Intimacy between you and Chanyeol had gathered almost violently, aggressive in the way you suddenly anticipate his movements, skin hungry for his and heart ready to give and give all of yourself over to all of him, without question or hesitation. With Chanyeol, you do not hide, you know that you do not have you. With Chanyeol, you know that you are accepted unconditionally, already aware of your greatest flaws and still supporting you in spite. 

With Chanyeol, you know there needn’t be a reason for you to have fallen in love with him, accepting, in the end, only the knowledge that you did. Most of all, the knowledge that a love like this, was ultimately inevitable.

Whisking the eggs and garlic together in a bowl, you feel Chanyeol enter the room rather than hear him. With your back to the entryway, the atmosphere seems to change simply because he is there, the electric shock of awareness running down your nerves. Food was the first thing you shared with him, long ago and long before you knew his name, dipping your fry into his milkshake with his permission the night Baekhyun introduced you.

Over time, you’ve continued to share food: drunk breakfasts, sober dinners, holiday meals cooked together, prepared in quiet understanding of one another’s movements. Every time you cook together, the chaos that usually follows you is seemingly absent, falling into a comfortable, wordless flow. 

A smile pulls at your lip, glad for the familiarity of the silence that will come from his help. Cooking with Chanyeol, there will be no need for conversation, hopefully eradicating the sensation that anything has changed at all.

'Can you start making the pancake batter?' You don’t bother to take your attention away from the eggs, already imagining his small nod and proud smile. 'You're so much better at pancakes than I am.'

Chanyeol comes behind you, pressing his chest firmly against your back, curling over your short frame as he drops his chin onto the crown of your head. You pause, lifting your eyes and keep them trained straight ahead at the wall and the cabinets, waiting for his petulant whine of disinterest. Or, perhaps, his claim that he doesn’t want pancakes and would rather have toast, something far easier to make when hungover but equally as hearty. 

He’s done this before, after long bouts of teasing and usually in conversation, wrapping around your body to make your movements difficult, to slow you, to tease you. Chanyeol has done this before but he has never done it the morning after, certainly never done it with drink still in his system and without expectation. Closeness like this always demands more, and you feel too sober to let yourself get carried away.

Forcing yourself to smile, you run through these thoughts and prepare for his complaints, building up your walls on instinct. Instead and without warning, he brings his hands beneath your hoodie and shirt, pressing his fingers firmly against your skin as he hugs you close, tight enough you imagine he is seeking to bind you to him. 

'It's cold,' he whispers, as though this explanation is sufficient enough. 

'Yeah,' is all you can manage.

You wonder if he is lying, if he actually is cold at all, his hands and fingers perfectly warm to the touch. If he were cold, you’d already have swatted him away, startled by the chill of his skin. But he remains, and you let him stay, his heat flowing and spreading over your skin like a fever. The warmth of this is familiar enough to water you, tongue feeling heavy as your walls clench around nothing. 

'You're warm,’ he continues, tipping his head down to kiss against your hair as he speaks.

You blink. 'Are you still drunk?'

He laughs, shaking his head against yours and messing up your hair. 'No.'

'Hungover?' you try, needing an explanation, an answer - any clue to assist in your next response.

'Not really?' he muses. 'You left water by the bed before we fell asleep, so I feel a little better. You're always taking care of me.'

With a small, happy sigh, he hugs you tight, leaving no room for air between your bodies. He brings his chin to your shoulder, turning inward and letting his nose graze along the tendon of your neck as you tilt for him, giving him room and access against your best judgement. 

'Chanyeol.'

'What?' he mumbles, eyes closing, eyelashes ticking your skin in the process

'What are you doing?'

The words come heavy and thick, so unlike the soft, kind words of affection you like to give him when he’s like this. So too unlike the words of playful abjection that comes from feigned irritation, reminding him and your friends and yourself that you are, in fact, just friends. 

Just friends and nothing more.

He furrows his brow, and you can feel the tension in his cheeks as he does so. 'What do you mean?'

Turning your body in his hold, his hands maintain their position as they slip to the small of your back. Gingerly, he lifts his head just enough for you to regard him, cool and bewildered. Remaining careful, your own hands grip the curve of the counter, knuckles tight with the effort of not reaching for him, wrapping around him with the same, easy affection. Your eyes search his face, his small frown of concern and his deep, chocolate eyes filled with such warmth and vibrancy, the very closeness of him making your chest burn with ardor.

Taking in a deep breath, you gather the strength to speak. 'We do this when we're drunk,’ you say simply.

It hurts to say the words, to bring the very grandeur of him down and to name yourself as the reason for his withering expression. But it hurts more to let your hands and lips and heart kiss at the glimmers of hope. It hurts just as much as the way it renders him so small, so impossibly small and young and lost, his eyes reading your expression as anxiety begins to seep into his irises.

'What if I want to do it when I'm sober, too?' he tries, the quietest he’s ever been, especially around you.

Casting him a quizzical, hesitant stare, you bite your lip, attempting not to feel wounded or boxed into a label that hurts. 'You mean officially be friends with benefits?'

Chanyeol pull back from you a little more, blinking as the color drains from his cheeks. 'Is...is that what you want?'

Something in his eyes tells you that he’d give this to you if you said yes. His admission for wanting this sort of intimate closeness when he’s sober says he’d give you this if you said yes, feeling as though he’s won the universe with sex and a best friend, and a world of other options ready and waiting for his touch. He’d give himself to you, too, you see it in the way he bites his lip, making sure you felt pleasure every moment, your world colored into ecstasy, the limits put on pleasure suddenly rendered obsolete. 

It would be so easy, to have him and simultaneously have nothing at all. 

And so you swallow thickly, aware that moments like these are tests of love - self love, and little else. Chanyeol has granted you a rare opportunity to be honest with yourself, even if you are not directly being honest with him, fully aware that you are too selfish to want only a fraction of his whole. With Chanyeol, you want all of him - you want absolutely everything, having tasted both sides of his soul, even if you have not tasted them altogether.

'No.' You shake your head, lungs empty of oxygen, speaking within a hollow exhale of emptiness.  'I don't think I could stomach that.'

'Oh.' 

He regards you with a crestfallen expression, shoulders and posture falling as your resolute answers weighs him down. 

Bewildered by this unexpected response, you decide to be completely honest, fully aware that unless you say something, he will absolutely never figure it out for himself. 

'You have to know it's been hard for me, right?' you try, cocking your head to the side in a silent plea. 'The last few months of this?'

'We can stop -'

You cut him off, closing your eyes and shaking your head. 'That's exactly my point, Chanyeol.' Your grip tightens on the counter, bracing yourself for this fall - this time, likely, away from him. 'I don't want to stop. I keep having to stop when we wake up and walk away. I'm -’ your voice breaks, throat tight and mind racing. Taking in a deep breath, you let yourself say it, all of it, without reservation. ‘I want more, constantly. I want all of you to myself. You know I'm inherently selfish, and also inherently direct. So I'm just letting you know I can't be your sober friend with benefits. I think that would kill me. I want you too much.'

When you finish, Chanyeol swallows, your gaze drawn to the movement within his neck. In your chest and hands, your pulse is racing, blood moving at a pace that keeps you lingering on the precipice of falling or flying, feeling, all at once, not unlike Icarus.

'I don't want to be friends with benefits either,’ he says, shaking his head, almost imperceptibly.

Your grip loosens. Your stomach drops. Still, your nerves remember the sensation of his touch, bringing forth the memory in urgency, aware that, not an hour ago, you already had your last fill.

'Then…’ your voice drifts, words arriving on your tongue in the wrong order. ‘Do we stop? I know you Chanyeol, you can barely handle alcohol and I can't handle myself around you.'

Even if he wants to stop, you aren’t sure you can. Your desire for him has reached deep into the nodes of your lungs, spreading like spores into the crevices of your heart, your mind, your blood. Chanyeol fills you, everyday and all the time, especially when you are drunk. With a drink in your system, your lust and love for him hits you tenfold, and one look at him will never be enough, not with the memory of the taste lingering behind the vision.

'I don't even really want to be friends, either.'

His abrupt announcement makes you grateful your hands are on the counter, knees buckling with the weight and help upright by structural stability of the house alone. 

'Oh.'

The word doesn’t sound like it comes from you, but you don’t bother clearing your throat. Really, you think you’d welcome the hold of the floor. At least it would never let you down.

'I want so much more of you than that,’ he clarifies, breath leaving his chest in a desperate, needy sigh. 

Your skin starts to tingle as he presses you tightly against him, hands walking up your spine as he grinds his hips against yours. Letting himself get close, he nudges the side of your face with his nose before speaking, opening you to him.

'I want to be able to do this -’ Chanyeol leans down and places a kiss at your neck, tongue stroking the marks his teeth made the night before. 'Whenever I want.' The coolness of his breath against the wet spot he created makes your tremble, and he chuckles at feeling of you quaking in his arms. 'I want to touch you here -’ Abruptly, he slides his hands down your back, both palms cupping your ass with a firm squeeze ' - without you thinking I'm joking.' 

Leaning back to make room for his closeness, you finally release your hold on the counter, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your fingers card through the soft hair at the nape, scratching in a mindless pattern that makes him growl within his throat.

'And most of all, I want to taste you when ever I want.' 

He captures your lips in a kiss that feels so unlike all the rest he’s given you. Sober and fully in control of your awareness, you cup his cheek, fingers toying with the tip of his ears as he parts your lips easily, running his tongue against yours with skilled prowess. The hot flash of his tongue is brief, removing a hand from your ass to guide your face up and back, moving to suck your bottom lip between his teeth. 

Against your stomach, your feel the hardness of his erection begin to form, the solid feel of it sending a wave of desire to your core. Wetness pools between your thighs, and this time you are grateful for the underwear that separates you, letting your desire win over. The heat of your craving gathers in your veins, making your skin feel tight as his hand roams from your ass to the small of your back and down again, possessing what it can and claiming you for his own. 

Breaking away to catch your breath, he rests his forehead against yours, feeling yourself recline into him. 

'Chanyeol,’ you sigh, feeling slightly dazed and a little light headed. 

In your chest, your heart battles against your sternum, sending waves of heat down and down into your core, feeling yourself become soaked, wanting to be full of him.

'You left me so hard this morning.’ He kisses along your cheek, letting his words cascade over your skin. 'I had to feel your wet cunt over my dick without getting to have my fill of you.'

Moving his hand from your cheek once more, he grabs your ass firmly, squeezes the flesh with vigor, rutting against you with a fervor that speaks of his need to be inside you. Over time, you’ve come to learn that Chanyeol is an inherently giving lover, so willing to offer pleasure first, the sense of pride in making you come likely its own form of eroticism, a stroke against his ego as pleasurable as a hand stroking at his cock. But, while he is terribly giving, he can often be impatient, his desire to be buried inside your walls sometimes rushing him past foreplay. 

Most days, you do not mind, just as desperate to feel full of him and to sate the empty feeling that always comes with his departure. Today, it is your turn to be greedy, your own ego riding a high at the thought of leaving him wanting.

'All you ever have to do is ask,’ you smile, coquettishly cocking your head to the side.  'You know that.' 

Moving your hand from his neck, you glide your thumb along his bottom lip, feeling the plump softness. Keeping his eyes trained on yours, he sucks your fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the tip before releasing it. On instinct, your legs part wider, making room for him and making room for the feel of him.

Dipping to capture lips in another kiss, his hands massage the flesh he holds with deft fingers, squeezing hard enough to lift you up onto the counter. Pulling back, he swallows hard and grips both your thighs, pulling you to the edge and wrapping your legs around his waist.

'Can I fuck you?’ he asks, kissing against your lips as he speaks.

Chuckling, you nip at his bottom lip, a small whine escaping your chest as he thrusts against the thin fabric of your underwear. Beneath his sweats, it’s clear he wears nothing else, the heat of his erection seeping through to your core, creating a wet patch in the shape of the head of his cock.

‘You’ve been fucking me,’ you sigh, voice caught between a laugh and a moan.

‘I want to fuck you,’ he clarifies, leaning down to place his teeth against your bite mark, grazing gently. ‘I want to fuck you and I want it to mean something.’

Pressing your heels against the back of his thighs, you roll your hips against him as best you can as you pull him close, clicking your tongue. ‘Have the last nine months meant nothing to you?’

Abruptly, Chanyeol raises his head and regards you in abject shock, looking stricken. 

Blanching, you search his face for a problem. ‘What?’

‘It’s been a year,’ he explains, assertive in his tone. 

‘A year?’

He nods. ‘It was a year last month.’

Time swirls around you, catching up to you only to depart once more, the timeline of your love and lust for him blurring together to one long, extended always. 

Clutching his neck and pulling him close, you kiss him, hard and demanding. ‘I’ve only been counting the times since we started waking up together.’

He smiles, moving a hand from your leg to rest between your bodies. Slipping his hand beneath the hem of your hoodie and moving it out of the way, he finds the space between your parted thighs and brings his fingers to the clothed barrier of your slit. ‘I’ve been counting it from the first kiss,’ he clarifies, pressing lightly smirking at the wetness he finds.

‘We’ve wasted a whole year,’ you manage, ending on a gasp as he moves your underwear to the side and drags his finger over your cunt. 

‘I’m too impatient to waste anymore time.’

Taking your lips once more, he moans into the kiss as he teases your slit with his fingers, moving his tongue against yours in the same rhythm, gliding over your wetness. Curling around him, your hands roam over his chest, his arms, his shoulders, gripping his muscles through his shirt. One hand moves down his sides, making him gasp in oversensitive shock against your mouth, before your grip settles on the waistband of his sweats, tugging at them.

The tips of his fingers against your cunt become insistent, offering teasing, gentle breaches into your wetness, wanting more and all of you.

‘How many fingers do you want?’ he questions, walking his free hand down your back and over to your hip, thumb rubbing circles against the skin. 

‘Three,’ you breathe against his lips. ‘It feels best with three.’ 

‘That’s my girl,’ he smirks, hand moving from your hip and over the soft fold of your stomach, palm settling with a rough grip against your breast. ‘Always so greedy.’

Pushing at his thighs with your heels once more, the movement of your legs makes you aware of the cold marble of the counter, aware that this is the most public you’ve ever been - breaching more boundaries in one day than you ever had before. 

‘Shouldn’t we move?’ you ask, gasping as he presses his index and middle finger inside. You clench around him, wishing for more, for something larger, thicker, and deeper.

Feeling the tightness, he smiles, offering shallow thrusts with his hand that slowly increase in speed. His other hand massages your breast idly, thumb pressing against your nipple as he smiles.

‘Don’t want to,’ he mumbles, setting a deep, languid pace with his hand. ‘I’ve needed you since I woke up.’

Moving your hand under the band of his sweats, you scratch along his hip bone, pleased with the way a shiver ripples through his muscles. The memory of his hard length pressing against your ass when you woke up gives you a sense of power, digging your nails deeper into his skin. 

‘Poor baby.’ 

Chanyeol whimpers, pressing deeper into your core and dragging a moan from your chest as he pulls his fingers out, only slightly.

‘Don’t tease,’ he chastises, hands moving from your breast to your back, pulling you closer as your other nipple rises, waiting for attention that will not come. ‘I’m hard enough for you it hurts.’

Sliding your hand forward, you walk your fingers down, tracing the fine hair of his happy trail down to the thick wires of his pubic hair and smirk, proven correct. Beneath his sweats, Chanyeol wears nothing at all. 

‘What did you do without me?’

It’s an ambiguous question, vague and almost meandering, but he catches on immediately. 

‘I used my hand and thought about your pussy on my tongue.’ The pace of his thrusts increases, curling upwards as your head rolls back, resting on the cabinet with a gentle thud. ‘Didn’t feel nearly as good as the real thing.’

Emboldened by his admission, you reach down and grip his cock firmly at the base, his fingers halting in their ministrations against your walls as he gasps, releasing a keening whine at the strength of your hand. Pumping him, you keep your gaze on his changing expression, watching as his features morph in the wake of pleasure.

‘Like this?’ you whisper, pumping his cock with long, languid strokes. ‘You touched yourself like this?’

Chanyeol leans forward, nodding, pupils dilated and lips parted. Spreading his fingers into a wide V, he stretches you in preparation, matching the pace of your hand against his cock. Like this, you share pleasure together, wetness gathering against his fingers and the blood of his cock racing beneath your palm. 

‘Yeah,’ he breathes, sounding strained.

Finally, he grants your requests and he slips his ring finger into your core, pressed against his middle in an effort to maintain the stretch. Satisfaction courses through your veins, the bump and ridge of his knuckles against your walls putting tension in your thighs. Always enamoured with the size of his hands, three of his fingers inside you is a stretch that you relish, a whisper of the fullness you anticipate.

Using your other hand to tug his sweats down, you free his cock, increasing the speed of your pumps. ‘You’ve been a needy boy this morning.’

‘You make me that way,’ he moans, moving his hand up your neck to fist in your hair. He leans down, kissing at your jaw, down to your neck, sucking on the tendon he finds, mouth and tongue needy. The overwhelming sensation of being handled by him has your free hand gripping the small curve of his ass in pleasure. 

‘I can’t take it,’ he announces, releasing your neck and tugging your hair back, demanding your attention. ‘Are you ready for me?’

Focusing on the intense expression he gives you, it hits you that your orgasm lingers not far off in the distance. With three of his fingers working at your walls, the slickness of you gathering at his hand evidenced by the wet noises that fill the air, you suddenly realize your are gasping for breath, flushed and hot and tense, thighs and back aching for a release.

Nodding, you close your eyes, releasing your focus on power and letting yourself be consumed by the sensation of being owned by him. Your wetness drips over his fingers, smeared onto your thighs and onto the counter, drenched for him the same way your body tightens for him, brought to the edge of desire by his touch alone.

Chanyeol pulls out his fingers, pulling from you a keening whine of emptiness, your muscles protesting the loss. His hand joins yours on his cock, twining your fingers together as he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. It’s such a romantic expression of ardor, one that softens you more than you would have expected to feel, realizing now that Chanyeol is far more romantic than you might have ever given him credit for. 

But he breaks this expression of soft, gentle romance easily, placing your hand on his hip while he pushes you forward, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

‘Need to be inside you,’ he mumbles, impatient. 

Even when drunk, Chanyeol had adopted a habit of pausing at your core, letting your wetness smear over the tip as he grazes your slit. It could, you imagined, be a method of teasing you into submission, but always his eyes bore into yours, waiting for your approval. Now, totally sober and in control of himself, aware that you, too, are fully in control of your choices, he pauses, this time with far more hesitation than you’ve ever seen.

In this moment, flush creeping up his neck and into his ears, cock straining to be buried inside you, he pauses, waiting for your answer and giving you the opportunity to retreat. In this moment, for the first time, Chanyeol looks as though your answer weighs his happiness, appearing vulnerable behind the bravado of being so cocksure. 

Reaching up, you brush the hair out of his face, glad that these touches get to belong to you, and nod, angling your hips to spread your legs wider, urging him inside. 

With a low moan, Chanyeol thrusts into you, pushing through your walls and burying himself to the hilt. Your hands grip at his shoulder blades, a hiss of pleasure escaping through your teeth as you feel yourself stretch to accommodate his large girth. Chanyeol stills inside you, giving both of you a moment to adjust to the sensation of feeling one another, sober and without distractions. 

The difference in sensation is difficult to rationalize, nerves and synapses entirely overwhelmed by how intense the feel of him inside you actually is. Without the alcohol to dull your awareness, Chanyeol feels so much more tactile and heavy, your walls stretched around him in a way that feels complete. You clench around him and he shivers, moving both hands to your hips, keeping you still as his head falls to your shoulder. 

‘Don’t do that,’ he moans into your skin, words garbled from pleasure. Unable to help yourself, you do it again. Chanyeol squeezes your hips, offering a shallow thrust into your core. ‘Please,’ he begs. ‘If you keep doing that I’ll come faster than I want to. You’re so fucking tight, I can’t really take it.’

You let one of your hands find the hair at his neck once more, stroking idly in comfort while he moves in small, messy thrusts, getting used to the feel of you both without a condom and while sober. Stretched full of him now, your orgasm looms, a promise you can almost kiss without really feeling, but you don’t rush him to move, aware that he feels completely different - harder, longer, and deeper than you have ever experienced before. 

Eventually, he pulls out to the tip and sets a hard rhythm, pressing the full length of his cock into you with each thrust. The pace he sets is not unusual, but the tenderness with which he ends his thrusts, almost slowing to ensure you feel every inch of his length and that he feels every aspect of your walls is tender, sweeter than he usually is. Last night, he was unforgiving in the way he snapped his hips against yours, both of your relishing the pain that came with your hips meeting and the stretch of your lips to accommodate him. 

Now, he is almost careful with you, his hands pushing your hips to meet his every thrust while he kisses at your ear, tender and gentle, whispering praises of how good you feel. 

‘You’re pretty,’ he whispers. ‘You’re so pretty like this, wrapped around me and completely mine.’

It's the first time he's allowed himself to be so possessive, using words that stake claim and allowing himself to be needy. You're not sure how long you've felt like his, perhaps always, but now you are glad to relish the title, aware that it is your rightful home, and your rest a hand on his cheek, titling his face towards your to kiss him. 

The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, but you smile against one another, Chanyeol fucking into you with an urgency that makes the muscles in your back and stomach coil, tense to your core as your body learns to take him deeper.

'Chanyeol.' You sigh his name against his lips, a whine following quickly after as he hits the spot inside you no one has ever reached, not even him. You hold onto him tightly, feeling the tightness of pleasure overtake your limbs, nails starching into his skin, tense. 

'That's my girl,' he says, speeding up his thrusts.

Chanyeol moves a hand from your hip, working it between your bodies to swirl his fingers against your clit. On contact you moan, hand coming away from his shoulder to grip the handle of the cabinet as you roll up against him, needing more. You're not ashamed of how loud you are, forgetting there are others in this house - that you're even on holiday with someone other than Chanyeol, your high pitched whines unleashed with every hard press against your clit. 

With his finger on your clit, your walls clench involuntarily, your orgasm approaching with a swiftness that startles you. 

'Fuck, baby,' Chanyeol whines, his thrusts losing their sharp, even edge and becoming messy. 'Baby, you're doing it again - fuck, oh fuck.' 

Chanyeol's attention your clit stutters, hand on your hip tightening as his head rests once more on your shoulder. You smile through your pleasure, eyes trained up at the ceiling in awe of how raw and full and warm he is. His boyish moans only lure your orgasm closer.

Still, you continue to clench around him, the swirl of his fingers driving you closer. 

'Fuck,' he announces, fucking into you harder. ‘I’m gonna come.’

‘Yeah?’ you breathe, surprised by how quickly his own end approaches. 

When drunk, it is not that he lasts for an explicitly long period of time, merely that he takes his time - foreplay takes time, his thrusts take time even if they are hard and fast and long. Now, he trembles against you, skin hot and neck damp as he lets himself get overwhelmed, straining to keep his pace. His arms shake, hand at your hip clutching to you as though your flesh and bone root him to the earth, but you are glad for this hold, pressed into the counter and held in place.

You, too, feel yourself become dizzy, dazed and overwhelmed by the stimulation of him. His natural scent mixing with the cologne already lingering on his shirt, the heat of the hoodie, the sound of his breath as he moans through his thrusts - louder than you ever remember him being - is enough to set the burn in your heart and chest to your core, your own legs shaking, a hard press to your clit rolling you up into him once more.

‘Come inside me,' you mutter, breathless and urgent.

Chanyeol's head rolls against you, his hips slowing in an attempt to slow his thrusts, but you clench around him, shuddering as a swirl over clit makes you quake, and he chokes, thrusting hard and deep, right against your spot. 

‘Are you sure?’ he whines, kissing at your neck in desperation.

Taking your hand from the cabinet, you clutch at his shoulders, nodding. Realizing he cannot see you, you suck an inhale through your teeth, the muscles at the base of your spine building a pressure that sends your hips into his, messy and uncoordinated, pushing yourself to an end, even if it is not unified. 

‘Just come,’ you affirm, scratching your nails down his back. He whispers a small, almost missed fuck into your neck, and you smirk, clenching around him in encouragement. ‘Come in me, I’m so close.’ 

He whines, hand at your clit stilling while still lingering, a teasing pressure that keeps you needy and on edge. Something about this barely there touch sends fractured and splintered waves of your oncoming orgasm down through your back and stomach, a ripple of an oncoming storm that has you quaking in his arms, feeling violent and wild. 

'Come with me?' he tries, the words choked and garbled.

It’s the romance of it that does you in, you think. So many times over the last year, it seems, you’ve had Chanyeol and the hard edge of his eroticism, the teasing and possessive way he licks a full line of your slit before he presses his tongue inside; the way he leaves bite marks on your breasts, hand prints on your ass, marking you in all the places that say someone has been there before and will be again. Now, he asks for your heart, seeking a climax that is shared, kissing your hands and kissing your soul, entwining you together and staking a claim that says someone is here and always will be. 

So it's the romance, seeing him so devoted to you and your needs, to your heart and your body, that makes you hold onto him a little tighter, legs widening to take him even deeper, all the way into your soul. It's the romance that has you nodding against him, gasping for breath beneath the heat of the hoodie, his touch, and in the wake of his thrusts, your orgasm burning beneath your skin, ready to shatter your bones.

Against your neck, he smiles. 'There it is,' he whispers, but you're too far gone to ask. 'I can feel you. This is my favourite, every time.'

Chanyeol presses his fingers against your clit once more, the shift from the teasing, cloying grazes you'd been feeling to the rough swirl of a circle sending your orgasm through your nerves. The world around you breaks, black and white and full of colours, the shapes of the world blurring behind your tears and into nothing as you squeeze your eyes shut. Your hands fist in his shirt, clutching to him as though afraid of disappearing altogether, the bliss and ecstasy of feeling all of him at once breaking over you in a wave that leaves your lips parted, his name spilling from your lips in a whispered, almost silent, scream. 

His name spills from your lips at the same time he spills inside you, the sound of his orgasm reverberating into your skin. On him, your name is a shout of euphoria, almost victorious in the way he declares it, a tattoo of ownership against your neck. His warmth fills you, the heat of his come warm and almost unfamiliar, a sober experience that feels strange yet paradoxically so right. 

Chanyeol slides his hands from your hips to your back, tips of his fingers rubbing circles at the base of your spine, something about this touch so overstimulating that you shake in his arms, drawing him closer and breathing him deep. 

‘Mine,’ he mumbles, sounding so small and so shy. ‘Please be mine.’

It's hard to imagine how he would believe you belonged to anyone else, could ever want to after feeling all of him, right down to his soul. But Chanyeol has always been shy and insecure, the tremors of his bravado simply a mask that hides his nervous smile. 

Your arm feels heavy as you lift it to his hair, carding your fingers through the strands and stroking him, soothing him. ‘Yours,' you agree, turning your head to kiss at his ear. Chanyeol rumbles happily against you, the heaviness of his limbs comforting. 'Only yours.’ 

‘Literally, what the fuck?’ 

Minseok's yell startles you both, Chanyeol flailing as he pulls back and thus pulls out of you, your eyes squeezing shut from the stimulation of it. He pulls you to the floor, hidden from view behind the kitchen island, covering your mouths to keep from laughing. 

'This is...,' comes Jae's voice, drifting away in shock. ‘You’re both disgusting!’

Chanyeol's come begins to drip between your legs and you grimace, aware that the mess has spread elsewhere. Still, you don't really find it in you to be guilty.

‘You’re cleaning all of - whatever the fuck - on your own. I’m not coming in there,' Minseok declares resolutely, the sound of their footsteps drifting as they run, rather angrily, up the stairs and to their room where they close the door with a slam. 

Moving his hands from your mouths you both erupt into laughter, Chanyeol collapsed on top of you as he howls. Putting your hands on his shoulders, you nudge him, rolling him off you as you reach up for a dish towel. 

‘The good thing about sex on the floor,’ Chanyeol begins, watching you wipe his come off your thighs and the floor, ‘is that if it’s with the right person you don’t realize it’s the floor.’

Cleaned, your fist the towel into a ball and put it beside you, making a mental note to add that to the laundry. Turning to face him, you smile. ‘Want to find out if that’s true?’ 

[lailannajacobs]

A Shattered Promise and an Unbreakable Bond | Counterfeit Criminals pt.12

Pairing: Loki x fem!Reader

Chapter Summary: Some serious stuff happens up in space. 

Warnings: Lotta angst and pain, sorry my friends 

Word Count: 1.9k 

A/N: So....yeah....all I’m going to say is that this is not a long chapter, but a lot happens. Hope you enjoy! Always love to hear what you think! <3 

Chapter Twelve 

Swearing was the first thing you were conscious of. It was in a language you didn’t know, and you could barely hear it over the ringing in your ears, but you knew it was swearing. Loki was swearing - that was something you’d never heard before and you knew that whatever was happening wasn’t good.

The world around you blinked into focus as you cracked your eyes open, one of them sticky with, what you realized with tender finger to the temple, was blood. You turned slowly, trying to remember where you were and what had happened. Somehow, you were buckled into the passenger seat of your ship. A massive boom hit the ship, the impact shook you around, your weak body tossed around in the seat. Loki’s frantic voice edged its way out of the fog of your memory and into the present as you began to piece together what had happened. You couldn’t have been out for long, but the pounding in your head was too fresh for you to do much more than tilt your head.

“Loki,” You croaked, your voice hoarse as if you hadn’t spoken in days.

His attention snapped to you so fast you wondered if you had shouted his name instead of whispered it. Relief filled his face when his quick scan of your body revealed nothing new but was quickly banished by cold efficiency that bordered on murderous.

“Where is your ship’s shield?” He demanded, eyes darting across the console.

It took you longer than usual to process the question, your mind still in a daze, “I don’t have one.”

He stilled, whatever realization he’d come to worse than you had first thought. Focusing on your breathing, you waited until you felt close enough to normal that you could ignore the pain from the blast and direct that adrenaline into a plan of action.

With the seeds of a plan taking root, you were about to unbuckle yourself when his hand shot out, pinning you to the seat with a hand on your chest.

“Don’t,” He warned, eyes dangerous.

The look didn’t deter you, especially not as he swerved to avoid another hit, “I’m not sitting this out. Don’t think I haven’t recognized the Praxians out there. They’re here for me.”

“You almost died,” He stated as if that was the end of the discussion.

Like hell it was.

“It happens,” You growled, throwing his hand back at him and unbuckling your seatbelt, “One of the many perks of being human. Now, unless you want to guarantee my death, move.”

If he was surprised by the fact that you’d caught on and were ready for battle so quickly, he didn’t show it in anything more than a piercing look and a clenched jaw. If anything, he looked downright furious, but not enough so that his pride made him stay in his seat. He evaded an incoming shot before relinquishing control.

Buckling yourself into the seat, you assessed the damage. Your heart dropped. You were only going to be able to remain space-bound for another twenty minutes or so.

“How many?” You demanded, scanning the radar.

“Only three.”

You searched for the relief in his voice, but it wasn’t there. The Praxians weren’t known for their bedside manner - they shot to kill. Still, the odds could have been worse. They were good enough for your plan to possibly work.

“I’ll keep the ships distracted,” You began, feeling his eyes on you as he waited to hear what you had in mind, "Can you teleport into the enemy ships and take them out from the inside?”

He nodded, changing into battle gear before your eyes. Another blast skimmed the back of your ship and you swore, straining to keep it steady. Loki marked the Praxian ships on the radar with his finger, outlining his own strategy so that you wouldn’t shoot him out into space.

Caught up in the plan, you barely managed to avoid a shot that would have torn the ship in two. Loki still didn’t move.

“Go,” You ordered when he shot you a long look.

He pursed his lips, dipped his head and then vanished.

The strange look he’d had on his face was imprinted in your mind, but you had to push it aside and concentrate. You’d be no use to him if you were dead. You aimed the ship back toward the astroid field, using the massive rocks as cover. It would make hitting the other ships harder, but that wasn’t your job - you needed to keep their attention off Loki for as long as possible.

The next fifteen minutes were the longest of your life. Every shot, you took afraid you’d hit Loki by mistake. Once he had taken down an enemy ship, he returned to yours, murderous, but always looking for you and scanning to make sure you were all right before returning out to the ships. You shot at the Praxians relentlessly, but you never knew if your diversions were working or if they even helped. Your muscles strained and your hands were cramped but you continued without fail, not about to leave him helpless.

An eternity later, the last ship went down, but nothing even close to relief went through your body. Jamming the ship into idle, you stood up and paced back and forth, wondering where the hell he was. He had to be alive. He had to. You checked your radar, checked every sensor on your ship and still nothing showed any evidence that Loki was still alive.

Your ship’s alert system blared through the ship, warning you that you only had a few more minutes until it was no longer functional. You stilled, unable to follow the warning; not when it would take you less than a minute to get to his planet. You weren’t leaving without him unless it was the only way you’d make it out alive.

A strange zap sounded through the air and you knew immediately what had happened. Whipping around, you found Loki collapsed on the floor, struggling to get back up. There was so much blood everywhere, it was all you could see.

You ran over, helping him back up, “Loki!” You fingers fluttered to his face, trying to find the source of the pain, “What happened?”

“Are you hurt?” He demanded, the ferocity in his eyes not dimmed by the amount of blood covering his shirt.

You desperately hoped it wasn’t his, but judging by the grimace on his face, your hopes were in vain. All you could manage was a quick shake of your head. The relief on his face told you that was all the answer he needed.

You lifted his shirt, only to see a gaping hole in his abdomen. You sucked in a breath, your heart stopping at the sight.

“I’ll heal,” He replied gruffly.

With a pointed look in his direction, you whispered, “You’d better.”

He forced a smile, but it lacked some of his usual insouciance.

The alarm picked up again, reminding you that you had less than two minutes to go before you’d be stranded. As much as you wanted to stay by his side, you knew you had to go. You weren’t out of the woods yet, but you hadn’t gone through all this to die now.

“Don’t move,” You ordered, knowing he was liable to try and steer the ship himself.

You were steps away from your seat when Loki shouted your name, the sheer panic in his voice rooting you to the spot. Somehow, he was at your side, shoving you out of the way seconds before an enemy dagger came down on you. Only it hit Loki instead, piercing him in the chest. You screamed.

The Praxian lifted his head, eyes locked on his target - you. Loki crumpled to the ground, the second injury too much for even his body and the man stepped over him. His dagger dripped with blood as he advanced, guarded, but ready to attack.

You weren’t afraid. The mix of anger, grief and adrenaline had made everything perfectly clear and you knew this man would die the moment you reached your gun. The sight of Loki’s pale body on the floor of your ship and the blaring alarm meant there was no room for error. He’d stabbed Loki. He had to pay for that.  

Your body moved as if someone else was pulling the strings, your mind shifting into a state of cold detachment until you’d taken the two steps to your gun, aimed and pulled the trigger. The man collapsed, taking the last of the threats with him.

Or so you thought.

Loki groaned, the sound hollow and unlike anything you’d ever heard come out of his mouth. You were at his side, knees hitting the ground with a pain you didn’t feel, cupping his face in your hands. You searched for any sign that the man in your arms was an illusion, but you’d gotten too good at your little game to think he wasn’t real. This time, nothing about his injuries were fake, especially not the gash in his abdomen and the knife still sticking out of his chest. His eyes began to glaze over. It was a miracle he was still alive, but it wasn’t looking like he would be for much longer.

You needed to stop the bleeding. You needed to do something. He needed to live. You couldn’t let him die.

“YN,”

“Loki,” A tear drop fell on his chest and you realized you were crying, “I need to fix you up, okay?”

A watery smirk pulled weakly at the corners of his mouth. You couldn’t stand the sight. He had accepted his fate. He knew he was dying.

“I figured it out,” He wheezed, gripping onto your hand as if it was a lifeline.

You shook your head, choking on a sob, “Don’t. Tell me after.”

There was so much you wanted to say to him, and so much you’d said that you wished you hadn’t, but those green eyes were dimming and he wouldn’t let go; he wasn’t letting you save him. You wanted to fight him, beg him to hold on a little longer, but you couldn’t seem to move.

With his free hand, he brushed away one of your tears with his thumb, forcing his sly smirk back into place. If it hadn’t been half as alight as it usually was, you might have been able to stop the tears from flowing even harder.

“I figured out what I’m good at,” He rasped, his breathing shallow and laboured.

“Tell me later?” You begged, “Please.”

He pulled you close for a soft, fleeting kiss, his lips cold on yours.

“I’m good at keeping you alive,” He murmured, the hint of a small, satisfied smile on his mouth.

Then his eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back to the floor with a thump.

“Loki,” You croaked, feeling his hand go limp in yours.

He didn’t answer.

You checked for a pulse.

[talkfastromance4]

That Tuesday Night in June--Ashton Irwin oneshot

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

Author’s note: Sarah @spicycal showed me ‘Love Somebody’ by Lauv which this is loosely based on. It started off as something and ended into something entirely different. It might not make sense. I hope it’s not awful.

Word count: just shy of 3k

Warnings: slight smut, angst

donate to my ko-fi here :)

Masterlist

• • • •

Constant phone alarms. Car horns honking. The rumble of the jet beneath his feet and the turbulence of the landing. Ashton feels it all, each noise is like a bullet pressing into his constant headache. A dull pain that wraps from his forehead to the tip of his condor tattoo on his neck. Sunglasses don’t help and his insurmountable cups of iced coffee don’t help either.

He’s haunted from that Tuesday night in June. The ghost of your smile makes him ache in the worst way and he swears he can still smell that white raspberry and flowery perfume that is uniquely you. That Tuesday night in June was the last time he’d see you before he left for tour.

He never liked being home while his bags and cases were packed with his clothes. His barren closets echoed the empty space of his house and it always drove him mad, so he always came by your place. It became an unplanned tradition a few years ago when he had a minor panic attack. He called you frantic while you were driving home asking if you could stop by.

When you arrived, you saw him with his elbows on his knees and his head hung low between his legs as he tried to steady his breathing. After a moment of soft words, you understood the empty house ailed him. You coaxed him into getting into your car so he could come by your place for the night.

You brought out card games, board games and played his favorite movies in the background while he calmed down. You both fell asleep on the couch and you had no problem driving him back to his place so he wouldn’t miss the car that would pick him up for his flight. Since then, when he’d finish packing, you’d swing by and take him to your place.

That Tuesday night in June started out like every other previous tour eve. Ashton turns the volume up on his phone so the playlist you made for him is louder than the ache in his head. He remembers that night so vividly, it’s replayed so many times that he could relay every detail to someone if they asked.

You and Ashton are sitting on the floor of your living room, cross legged, knees touching while his hands hold onto your knees in a strong, yet comforting way. Your eyes are locked, and you try to match your breaths with his index fingers tapping on your kneecap.

“Are you feeling relaxed?” he asks, exhaling deeply.

“No, because I’m concentrating on your finger and it’s hard to breathe like that,” you sigh slumping forward. He’s trying to teach you how to meditate by doing some breathing techniques.

“You need to focus on your breath, not my fingers,” his fingers leave a phantom imprint on your skin as he tousles his darkened curls that frame his face. He lets out a big breath, turns his neck from side to side and rolls his shoulders. As if your incapability of his technique disturbed him. “Let’s try something else.”

“Like what?” you roll your eyes. Ashton narrows his then places your hands on your knees, he covers his hands over yours. The heat radiates from his palms to yours.

“Center yourself.”

“How do I—”

“I’m teaching you, aren’t I?” he snaps, his eyebrows rose.

“Ookay…I think you need to center yourself, Ash,” you quip back.

“Don’t be sassy,” he squeezes your hands as if in warning. Instead of evoking worry, the action only made your body warmer. “Close your eyes and do a deep inhale… and exhale… Good. Now I want you to breathe comfortably—”

“No tapping?” you interrupt.

“No tapping. And no more interruptions from you, missy.”

“Sorry,” you lock your lips together. You do another deep breath and try to match your breathing with your heart.

“Visualize yourself as a tree—”

“Can I be the ocean?”

“Y/N,” he says sternly, and you lock your lips again after muttering a soft ‘sorry.’ “Fine, imagine yourself as a tree surrounded by water.” He lowers his voice and speaks slowly. “Your head and arms are the branches soaking up the warm sun. You feel the warmth on your cheeks, your nose, your shoulders, your arms, your hands and fingers.”

You concentrate on the soothing tone of Ashton’s voice; your breathing has lowered, and your body feels heavy but in a nice way. With each body part Ashton listed, you relaxed even more.

“You can still feel the warm sun as we move down your legs, and then we’re in the water. It’s the perfect temperature, just like the sun filling you with warmth and peace. Your toes are like roots, soaking it up.”

On reflex, you wiggle your toes beneath your legs and it’s as if you can feel the water and the warm mud squelching between your toes. It’s a lovely feeling.

“You can feel the water shoot up your roots, going through your veins. You feel it in your knees,” he squeezes your knees gently. “In your hips, each fingertip, your wrist, your elbows….”

You let out a soft sigh, his voice is hypnotic, and you can feel it touch every part of you he’s listing. Your mind is blank except for the vision he has you imagine. His presence and yours are all you can sense.

“Now the water is traveling to your shoulders, your neck, your chin, your cheeks…” his breath shakes and you swear you felt his breath blow on your face. “Your lips…”

Then you feel Ashton’s lips on yours, they’re hesitant but promising. His visualization of the sun made your body warm, but his lips on yours left you scorching. You kiss him back and his fingers dance up your thighs to your waist, he squeezes your hips and you gasp. That action electrifies your body, he lifts you onto his lap. Your legs lock around his waist, his hands are hot on your back, his heat radiating through your shirt.

You rake your fingers in his hair as your tongues roll together, breathing heavily. You’re caught up in the moment, so you kiss him fiercely, years and years’ worth of kisses are pouring out of you. You bring your hand to his jaw, loving the way he flexes beneath your fingers. Ashton slips his hands under your shirt; his fingers splay over your back.

In your mind’s eye, you’re still standing in that body of water, and with each roll of your hips and squeeze of Ashton’s fingers, it sloshes around you. You’re making waves and you never want to stop kissing him. His lips are in control of the kiss, pulling soft moans and more kisses from you when he drags his hand down your leg. He squeezes at your inner thigh, his thumb teasing over your core with each squeeze. Your legs jerk at each rub, inclining yourself closer to his thumb. Your body is electric and buzzing, his touch setting you on fire, but you break the kiss to get a breath of fresh air.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” his voice is husky in your ear as you press your body to his.

“Why would I do a thing like that?” you sigh biting your lip as your tummy fills with butterflies.

Your fingers tug on the fabric of his shirt. When he gets the idea, Ashton is quick to remove both of your clothes. Your breathing is shallower as his fingers tease up and down your folds, you glide over his fingers deliciously, tantalizingly, torturously.

“You’re dripping, angel,” he exhales.

You press your nose to his, the vision of his eyes conjoins together as one as he thrusts up into you. Your breath is shaky as he fills you, you feel every inch stretch you open. You clench and unclench around him to get used to his size, his hands are all over you, his breathing ragged. When you begin to move, he moves with you and it’s so, so good. He pulses inside you; you squeeze over him and he drags your bottom lip between his own.

The rush of it all sent you to the moon and back in a constant loop.

Leaving you that next morning was the hardest thing Ashton had to do. After your moment together, the two of you stayed up talking and kissing all night. When it was time to leave, he ordered an Uber so you could sleep. He gave you a goodbye kiss to the forehead (not your lips because he’d never leave your bed if he did) and left.

He was still on a high and each step away from you brought him down. Each mile he flew away from you left him feeling desolate. He swore to himself he would stay in touch with you, not like all those other times while he was on tour. Ashton centered himself on performing so he could put on the best show possible and that meant no distractions. You’d always understood but after last night? Things changed.

You’re on his mind from sunup to sundown and even in his ultraviolet dreams. The first few weeks were okay, you talked on the phone constantly but then when he missed one because he fell asleep, the phone calls stopped. He’d rehearsed what he wanted to tell you, but each time he wanted to call something else distracted him.

It was a vicious cycle, texting an uplifting promise to call only to inevitably put you down and through this. He’s angry at himself and that’s the source of his headache, a constant reminder of letting you down.

***

A car horn blasts, Ashton jumps in his seat then presses on the gas as the green light shines in the LA night sky. He’s almost home but he’s filled with a hollow feeling rather than a comfort. It takes him two trips to lug his tour life back into his house. He knows he should unpack and do some laundry, but he’s exhausted so he collapses onto his couch.

Without thinking, he unlocks his phone and opens your messages, the last message from you was left on read from seven weeks ago.

I’ll be waiting 😊

His heart sinks, his head throbs, his thumbs hover over the keyboard. Should he call or text you? Will you answer?

He decides to call. Each trill of the ring hits his head some more until your voice sounds from your voicemail. He sighs but he’s not surprised. Your voice soothes his head a little.

“Uh, hey, it’s me…Ashton,” he begins then shakes his head throwing it back onto the couch. He uses his thumb and forefinger to rub the bridge of his nose, “of course you know it’s me. Or maybe not if you deleted my contact. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I know this is mundane over the phone, but I really am sorry, Y/N. For everything. I’d love to meet for coffee or…or if you want to tear me apart with an angry voicemail or text…I deserve it. Um, but I’m home and I… I want to make it up to you if you let me. Bye.”

He drops his phone onto his stomach and begins to wait.

Over the next seven days he’s left a voicemail for you each day.

“It’s me again, Ashton. It’s taking everything in me not to text others asking how you are. I know it’s not my place, at least right now. I know I fucked up. Call me back.”

“Hey Y/N, it’s Ash. It’s currently 6:07 in the morning and I know you’re still sleeping but I just finished my yoga and I miss your good morning texts. You’d send me one and fall asleep right after. Then we’d get coffee or lunch and you always want to go to the beach. Maybe I’ll go to the beach today…I’ll be at our usual spot if you want to stop by. Have a good day, okay?”

“Hi, hopefully you know who this is by now. Do you remember when we stayed up all night driving around the city eating chicken tenders and shakes? Then we snuck into Cal’s backyard to go for a swim and he found us the next morning burnt as tomatoes because we fell asleep on his hammock. That was a fun night. I’m about to head to your favorite fro-yo place, I’ll get a gummi butterfly for you. Call me.”

“I really hope you didn’t change your number and some random person is listening to me talk to myself. I almost asked Cal how you are since you guys went to that concert a few nights ago. This is killing me, not talking to you…I know I deserve it, but I still miss it. I miss you, angel. Sweet dreams. Call me.”

“I’m probably getting super annoying, aren’t I? But I know if I was, you’d tell me, so I think you’re listening to these. I’m thinking of you all the time. I’m so sorry for what happened after that night we shared. This is all on me, I made promises that I always broke. I’m such an idiot, why did I do that? I know why…I got scared. I’m sorry for lifting you up to only bring you back down. I want to make it up to you if you’ll let me….”

“Me again, this is day…six? I think? I’ve been home for six days and I’m quite honestly going crazy not seeing you. I hope you’re doing well and are happy. At least I can hear your voice on the message you leave, you have the cutest fucking voice. Did you know that? It makes me smile. So does your laugh, I really love your laugh. Since it’s raining, I’m probably just going to chill at home and watch movies, if you want to stop by. You still have my key, I think. Even if you don’t, bust a window.”

“Day seven and if I don’t get a call by midnight tonight, I’m coming over. I hope you’re home. If you’re not, I’ll wait for you. Is that creepy? Maybe, but I don’t want to lose you angel, if you yell at me to leave, I’ll leave, but then I’ll call you every day. I know you’re angry and hurt and pissed off at me, you should be. I’m feeling that way about myself, too. I wish it didn’t take me this long to realize this, and I shouldn’t be saying it over the phone, but I love you. I’m in love with you and I made a mistake, the worst mistake to the best person. Please call me back. Yell at me. Hopefully, I’ll see you at midnight, if you don’t want me to come over can you send me some form of text? It can even be the middle finger emoji. I’ll see you later…”

He’s crazy. He knows he’s batshit bananas, but he cares about you and misses you so much that he parks in front of your place. As he gets out of the car the clock on his dashboard changes to midnight and he walks up the path to your door. His knuckles touch the door just as it swings open and you’re in front of him, a slight scowl on your face.

“Hi,” he mumbles, lowering his hand.

“You’re an idiot, Ashton Irwin,” you say.

“I know,” he nods.

You stand there, nibbling on your lip, brows furrowed as he waits for the impact of your anger. He thinks he’s prepared himself for whatever you throw at him.

“You can’t just sleep with me and never call. I had to ask the guys how you were doing because I had no idea. I thought you regretted it. And then you call after leaving me on read for seven weeks? And you call me everyday and tell me you love me? You can’t just do that, that’s not right.”

“I know,” he nods again but then your face softens.

“Why am I in love with an idiot?”

He perks up at that and then you fling your arms around his shoulders pressing your lips to his. He kisses you back eagerly, his arms holding you tightly against him then he tastes salty tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he breathes, “I hurt you and that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. I’ll make it up to you if you let me.”

You rub his cheek, trace his eyebrow.

“How will you make it up to me?”

“By not being scared anymore,” he shakes his head, “I love you, I love you so much and I was too scared to admit it while I was gone. I made dumb excuses in my head and created situations that weren’t real. I’ve been searching and searching to love somebody, and I always fucked it up. But the difference between them and you are that I gave up on them. I don’t ever want to give up on you. I’m fighting for you, for us.”

“How much gas is in your car?”

“Um… a full tank, why?”

“Let’s go for a drive and get some chicken tenders and shakes until you run out of gas. That should be enough time to tell me about tour, right?” you smile slowly, and he kisses you.

“You forgive me?” he whispers.

“I forgive you. I know you didn’t do it on purpose, you’re always up front about everything and I could hear how sorry you were in all those voicemails.”

“So, you did listen to them,” he chuckles.

“Of course, I did. I missed your voice, too.” You grab his hand, lacing your fingers together. “How about that drive?”

• • • •

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[southerneldritch]

It begins (Chapter 1)

The sun was not burning hot so much as painfully reminding him how important it was. High in the southern sky the heat pushed the humidity around enough to make the small shaded porch feel more like a sauna that a place for reprieve. However, now a good 3 feet down and still digging into the grave or one Mr. Lewis Rothburg, it left him wondering if the shade would prove more comfortable than it had once provided.

Stopping a moment to wipe his brow he looked around the long abandoned cemetery. Each stone edifice, once a proud reminder of capable men and women who in their lives had done great things...and horrible things, now standing derelict deep in the woods surrounded by an ever encroaching nature. A slight smirk crossed his lips, "The seem lucky." he thought to himself aloud. "They have no issue with what horrors are coming...they really needn't worry." He laughed as his shovel struck something hard and the sound of hollow wood thunked through the air. "Shit." He muttered.

There were two distinct things that immediately ran through his mind. Either the cemetery back in the day was notably unconcerned with health and safety, thusly the coffins were buried much shallower than they should be or, more worryingly, the man who sold the information about the location of Mr. Rothburg also warned that the graveyard had been used by criminals for hiding all sorts of things. Typically speaking the actions of the criminal world seldom would have bothered him but the fear that Mr. Rothburg was no longer where he was supposed to be greatly shifted the situation from simple to complicated.

With little to no options left for him he began to dig and free whatever thing he had just struck with his shovel. The sun glaring at the actions below as with some considered effort the lid of a coffin was uncovered. The sound of cicadas filling the air he took a deep breath and jammed a crowbar around the edge of the lid. With a groan and firmly planted feet the casket lurched open. "Well fuck." He let the words lose themselves in the summer heat as he looked down in disbelief.

The tires of the old truck did not grip well on what could best be called a trail, perhaps a path, either way he didn't care. With a foot down hard the engine putted and pushed all it had as the vehicle flew through the thick of the woods back towards a motel on the outskirts of town. Skidding onto the actual road the cargo stowed in the back of the truck slid and banged hard against the side causing the skid of the tires to feel far more dramatic than how sharp a turn he actually made. Despite the weight the very coffin sized and shaped container, it didn't break.

With a grinding of gears and feet hard down on the brake the vehicle came to a stop in most of one parking space outside the Quiet Glenn motel. He slammed the door not so much from panic as much as the sweat that had covered him had caused it to slip quickly from his grasp. The setting sun still fighting the cold of the darkness that was now trying to cool the area. He threw the motel door open and as abruptly as it had made such a calamitous entry the cheap door was resting back in its sill with him sliding the lock into place. His heart was racing but he wasn't tired, turning around and smudging cemetery dirt across his shirt he looked up at a surprised woman sitting at the small table near the back of the room. Normally her thick raven curls of hair would have been accenting each side of her face but instead were now tightly pinned up, slightly damp with a glob of something smeared across a part of the her hair. She chuckled while setting down a slice of pizza back into the box on the table. "So it went well?" The question was sincere but purposely teasing in tone.

"Well!?" He exclaimed walking towards the table. "No I think we can categorically label it as poorly." His voice laid out a frustration that was punctuated with his glare at the tv which was currently displaying some sort of reality show, before flopping over onto the bed. "How well do you know Virgil?" His words muffled by the pillow he spoke into.

“Most of my life.” She cocked her head to the side and grasped the pizza box before standing and asking, “Did he give us bad info?”

“No, if anything the info was very correct.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“Several things, most of all, how well do you trust Virgil?” He pulled his face from the bed and sat up on the end of the stiff excuse for bedding provided by the motel. “Also, what the hell is in your hair?”

“I didn't have anything else to do so I’m bleaching some bit of my hair. It looked fun. Anyways, I know him pretty well, he’s known me and my family for a long time.” Her eyes grew concerned as she looked down at him sitting on the edge of the bed. “What happened?”

Drawing in a long breath he looked up at her and the box of pizza and reached out to take a slice. “We’ll at the very least I suppose we can feel satisfied that Mr. Rothburg was where Virgil said he would be.” Pausing to take a bite of the room temperature slice while again finding reason to glare at the TV. “Sadly he also mentioned that such a place tends to attract the more unsavory of folk.”

A smile crossed her lips as she plopped down heavily beside him. “Aren’t we the unsavory types? Somewhat doom and gloom, all manors of suspicious actions, illegal activity and occult hoobie dooby?”

“Not that sort of unsavory, more of the ‘we kill to accomplish our goals’ sorts of unsavory.” He said with a grimace while now looking at the slice of room temperature pizza in his hand. “We have never sought to injure, Mel.” he added with an impressively serious tone.

Placing the box on the bed just behind them both Mel asked, “So are you going to explain what has you in a such a mood or do I have to keep playing 20 questions?”

“I wish it we simple but it feels like it's worse.” he muttered

“Let's start simple.” She hated it when he acted like this, always a man with a plan and if things shift up, big ol grump for a hot minute. “Was Rothburg there?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's him.”

“Good. So first problem?”

“The coffin was roughly three feet down.”

“Only three feet?”

“Yup, first issue.” He stated after taking a bite of the pizza. “Do we have beer?” he added.

“Sure do, but so what if he was buried in a shallow grave. It wasn't like the townsfolk were gonna respect him"

“True. However, there is more to this mood than just interesting burial habits.” He stood and walked over to the small whirring mini fridge and plucked a beer out. “I don't think this is the first time Mr. Rothburg has been dug up.”

“What, why would anyone other than us want to dig him up!?” She was beginning to understand his mood. “What possible reason would they dig him up and then put him back!?”

“Like I said.” he began walking towards the door gesturing for her to follow. “How well do you trust Virgil?”

She got up and followed, both stepped outside into the hot twilight. The sun still determined to broil the area before being slowly beaten back by the encroaching night sky. They walked over to the back of the truck and swung open the tailgate door. He hopped into the back and grabbed an edge of the coffin lid and looked up at her, “Come here I don't want anyone to see.”

She stepped in beside the door and looked down at the coffin lid  his fingers were gripping. “Well enough build up, lets see it!”

With a sudden jerk and a loud crackling of metal hinges set in wood the lid lifted open. Light from the now buzzing parking lot fluorescents poorly lit what was laying in the coffin. First and foremost was the body of Mr. Lewis Rothburg, clearly it was his twisted form as the shin bones had been separated from his legs and placed under his chin. Though a considerable amount of decay had occurred it was also still plain to see that the jaw of Mr. Rothburg had been wired shut with crude metal studs and copper wire, ensuring even in death that he would no longer speak damnable words.

No, the condition of Mr. Rothburg was not the reason for shock or even a turned stomach full of pizza delivery, the reason that both of them looking into the coffin had slack jaws and bewilderment across their faces was because nestled around Rothburg’s remains were countless stacks of cash, gold, intricate medallions with arcane symbols and some weapons of peculiar design.

“What the hell is all of that!?” she exclaimed before realizing there were too few tenants in this particular southern motel outskirts of town to justify shouting without drawing attention. In a more collected tone while he began to shut the coffin. “Why is Rothburg swimming in cash?”

“I'm sorry, but did anything about my entry and line of questions sound like I have more ideas than you do now.” Hopping out the truck he closed and locked the doors, he suddenly felt very watched and disliked the notion. “Let’s get back inside and figure out our next move.” A cool breeze of night air brushed passed them both, typically a wonderful feeling now oddly ominous. They both went back inside the motel room before turning to locked the door behind them he added, “And wash your goddamn hair.”

[royal-writer]

And all of the angels sing along Turning your world into a song I’m gonna keep you, safe and warm Sleep on, sleep on When all the sirens slowly fade You know that I have found my way There’s no need to, be afraid Hold on to me

The gore of combat made it difficult to maneuver. It made slick the cobblestone, and stuck to the bottom of her boots like pig slop. With each attempt to dodge and weave around friends and enemies, Essätha found it more and more difficult not to stumble. The high winds were ripping through them; buffing hair and clothes not in the favor as it gusted up from behind. It carried the stench of the dead with it laying at their feet.

She cut left, then right. The sword missed her by inches, and the menacing figure cursed her in words both melodic and sharp all at once. The length of her braid slapped her in the face as she whirled back towards him, pelting a flash of magic against his side.

The violet tenders sputtered from her fingertips. Fatigue heavy on her eyelids.

She was exhausted, and draining the pools of her magic fast.

A fist crashed into her. Too close; not enough space to dive back for cover. They were flanked like sheep on all sides, the wailing of dying final breathes carrying with the violent howling breeze. She was just as winded, the oxygen forced from her lungs as another fist drove into her gut and forced her to curl into her chest.

Something struck her with enough force that her knees buckled and she dropped to the ground. The stone scraped her pants, and bloodied her bloodied her knees. Blood. Blood on her tongue and her head a dizzy mess. Which way was up? Why was her vision fogged in black around the edges? She could see shadows but could make no distinction. Harsh expressions. Teeth of different sizes. Dangerous eyes narrowed upon her, and the blur of limbs.

Her ears were ringing as Essätha fumbled for a dagger, and numbly flung it at the nearest shape. It bounced off of their chest with a guttural, mocking laugh. The sound was like crackling fire approaching as they raised their mace.

A blade swung into view. The distant voices once more beginning to clear. She could hear the desperation of a voice. A roar of anger and then a plea. Despairing. Hopeless. Hoarse with fear.

The sword stuck the first perfectly. In the small space of his visor, it found it’s mark directly into the beside the eye and into the skull. It came out with a swift kick to their chest, sending the figure hurtling dead to the ground with a thump.

Jerking the weapon to the right, the next closest didn’t have time to make a hasty retreat. They stood there, stunned, as the blade seemed to erupt with light. The magic hissed through their chainmail. As the last of the glow faded, the blade withdrew with a jerk. Some of his intestines began to protrude from the lethal wound as the victim doubled-over, and joined the other in being mercilessly kicked to the side.

Muscles throbbing, she strained on her elbows to try sitting up. The world tilted. Angles seemed off. Dimension faltered. Stomach knotting and rolling, she groaned as the pounding of her head intensified in a rush.

Her savior raised his shield, and took to a knee before them both as a larger shape lumbered into perspective. They braced. It wasn’t enough.

The figure raised their own blade, and metal clanked. The shield struck aside in a mighty blow, the figure thrust.

Lord Amon’s blood spilled out of his wound to rapidly coat his armor. He heaved for air, collapsing before her as the gladius sword was yanked free from his chest cavity.

Her heart instantly seized.

A scream frozen on her lips as her voice broke, she fumbled for the hilt of her dagger laying close by. The armor of the creature shook as it lifted it’s foot, slamming a clanking metal boot upon the blade as she tried to lift it.

Words fell from her lips. They were frayed and choppy. It surprised her that the spell even worked with her numb and shaking hand circling in the air, blasting a wave of thunder into their direction. They staggered, trying to keep their stature planted before ultimately being forced back by the thrust of the magic. Their scream of fury was only magnified by their deafness.

Essätha rolled over to cover the nobleman protectively. His face was sheet white and stunned; rapidly growing pallid as he choked and gurgled on the blood surging into his throat.

“M’lord Amon?”

Was that her voice? It was faded still. Detached. Filled to the brim with panic. Overflowing with emotion as she grabbed for his jerkin. Her hands were hasty; taking little of the care and gentleness she usually offered to press her hands over the large expanding around of blood.

It was rapidly beginning to bleed out beneath him in a steadily growing pool. The blood gushed and well around where her hands pressed, trying to stop his life from flooding out. It didn’t seem to slow the progress of the sticky warm substance coating her fingers.

“Amon my love, stay with me now,” she urged. “I’m right here. You’ll be healed up, just a moment-”

He reached for her. Choking, crimson splatters speckled his lips and dotted their clothes as he hacked and coughed.

His eyes were without fear. Only concern, which was vanishing from her vision and dissolving with the liquid that began to collect in her eyes and overflow the waterways to drip from her cheeks.

Callused fingers caressed her cheek. They trembled with the effort.

She reached for his hand, but it slipped from her before her grip could tighten. His eyes rolled back into his head and the Illiad Lord convulsed, sagging into the ground with a rattling final sigh of death.

“N-No m’lord,” more of a sob than words. “Just hold on for a second. Please, you can’t leave me. You can’t leave me I need you. Please I love you don’t go. Amon. Amon. Amon. My heart, my beloved, please.”

Slumping back on to her knees, a weak cry fell from her lips. She gasped for air; sucking it in but it did not fulfill her as the world seemed to collapse. A scream of grief; inhumane, keening and she could not find the strength in her limbs. None of the words to tell him how much she adored him. None of the ways to express just how much he meant to her.

He was her beacon of light. Safety, gentleness, friendship. A trust without boundaries. Limitless possibilities. All of her hopes and dreams were in his lifeless eyes. Her ambitions, her goals, the wishes for the future they could share together. She screamed as the hollowness overcame her. Raw throat; breath shallow. The luster of life that lit up his gaze and shone with a smile as he looked to her no longer.

She pulled him to her lap, and clutched him closer. Willing him to stay with her. Wailing to the heavens and cursing them all at once. Her ribs felt cracked; ready to burst and flood her sorrows into the earth and into her marvelous and beloved Lord Amon from what remained of her heart as it imploded beneath. The drafty winds almost seemed to carry his voice; unspoken whispers of love curled in her ear.

With a sudden jolt, a figure shoved her. Essätha moved to claw at it. The woeful voices in her head cried out in misery as someone else grabbed her from behind, restraining her initial reaction to protect.

“Step aside, Niss Essie, let Pri’cha try.”

On the knee-jerk reaction, her elbow came back to ram into the armor plating of Sir Abernathy’s armor. He winced, but more on her own behalf as she yelped in pain, straining against the hands beneath her arms.

“Amon-”

“Give her a chance to work, Essätha,” a deep voice soothed, pulling her aside. “Come.”

She had none of the strength in her to fight. Feeble little kicks, and tears staining her red cheeks as she moaned and sniveled between her wretched weeping. The thick bands of the older man’s arms clung to her tightly to keep her at bay. She could feel the shaking in his chest of barely restrained tears as he tried to shush and soothe her crying, until she was simply limp in his arms.

The cleric motioned to the others. They formed a barrier around to block the wind as the Thri-Kreen lit ceremonial candles, and placed them at points around the nobleman’s body. Their hands clasped; folding together beneath their robs as they bent their head in a sign of prayer.

All was quiet. The air stunk of rotted and burned flesh.

Pri’cha extended a shorter arm, and rested their digits against Amon’s forehead. It was a systematic approach. They seemed lost to their realm entirely; a blank expression in their massive eyes. The other hand reached into their bag, extending a diamond that they rested over his chest.

She’d never seen this spell performed. She only remembered vaguely what Pri’cha had reporting learning on it.

The soul had to be free and willing to join the body.

By the gods. Her heart squeezed, and felt like it had fallen to the floor.

He was lost. Her Lord Amon was truly gone.

His mother, his father, his long-lost relatives and friends. But mostly his Marie, who the light that soaked into his barren and cold life. That dear child who had made his life worth living for. He cherished her. Depended on her. Seeing the affect of loss it had on him, it seemed as if he would never recover. She had been everything to him; meant everything to him. Her sweet innocence, her kind gestures, the outlook she held to the world and how she made him think and change his perspectives and ways of life. At first to accommodate her, then in hopes of learning from her, the sort of role model of good she acted in every action she took.

He would not come back to them, and this horrible world. Why would he, when he could be home with the family he loved, and see his little girl?

It felt like the world had shattered. Like a hole had formed beneath her, and sucked her into the darkest part of the universe.

She loved him. She loved him and she knew this, but she never considered the outcome.

She would never recover. His love and tenderness had changed her. His calm thoughtful gestures, the care of his touch, the way he smiled and laughed stirred her insides into a maddening flutter of butterfly wings and sunshaft lights. He was calm and he was strength. Good intentions and hope. He was her salvation, her truth, her comfort and her joy.

Essätha was not so foolish to think she could not live without him. Just as he did without Marie; just as people did without their spouses for years after passing, she could survive. Hearts could survive terrible breaks and tragedies, and refuse to die even when you wanted it. Even when you accepted the consequences of it.

But he had become like air to her. Naturally entwined with her life.

She loved him. She needed him. But she no longer knew who she was, without him.

A full life that could have been ahead of them. Hand in hand, who knew where it would go. She had given him all of her. Secrets, insecurities, loneliness, and he had helped to mend her holes and rifts; to fill the canyons of her soul, to cover her wounds and stitch new fabric into the story of her life.

What was Essätha Meduza, without Amon Illiad? A destiny they could have and share had together. The rest of their lives, if they’d wanted. And she had wanted just that. So fulfilling; warm and comfortable, overcome with laughter and joy.

Amon was love eternal. Tomorrow was gone. It disappeared with his final breath. She no longer saw that sun rising, but a questionable endless void of darkness for years to come.

Time grew sluggish. She was but a doll, limp and lifeless in Abe’s arms. Her eyes closed, and tears trickling out soundlessly to spill over her chin, and on to the nobleman’s clothes.

A flash of light ignited beneath her eyelids. Essie flinched, squinting her narrow-eyed gaze towards the brimming light as it diminished, and with it, the glitter of diamond dust floated into the air and evaporated.

Amon sucked in a sharp breath of air, flinching. Blood dribbled from the side of his gaping mouth.

The party was stunned silent.

Abernathy was not hold her with enough strength to stop her. She yanked free, diving to the ground with shock and disbelief. Her knees did hurt from the impact, but it was of no consequence as she grabbed for his stubbly face, and looked into his dull eyes as they jerked uncertainly around.

He tried to work his mouth, but only a rasp emerged before she kissed the corner of his bloody lips. A smudge of tears and blood smeared on her mouth.

The sobbing returned anew. Grateful and shocked instead of mourning, Essätha wrapped her arms gingerly around his neck and held to him. There was a rough grunt close to her ear as he lifted a hand, stroking the shaking appendage down her spine.

Examining his injury and some of the other abrasions and cuts far less life-threatening on his person, Pri’cha let out a sigh of relief. He was healed, and he was whole.

“You came back,” she cried, muffling her voice into his shoulder as she clung to him.

He grunted once more, trying to sit up off the frigid rough stone. All at once everyone seemed to move, helping him into a sitting position as he winced. They circled him in an embrace; faces pressed to just about every corner of his person as a few more relieved sobs began to ring out.

In rigid, jerky movements, she could feel Amon move. He tried to place them all within the width of his arms to hold, but there was simply too many of them. Behind and in front, on either side, all massing around him in a collection of weeping tones and hushed words of comfort. He tried to reassure them all; patting their heads, their shoulders, slurring some speech they could not make out.

As he turned his eyes upon her,  Essätha looked up to him. The weight and scope of his gaze held her. She breathed again, as he did; filling the world expand in her lungs, and exit them. It felt like the first breath she’d ever taken, her pulse racing between her elation and lost terror.

She reached over into his overcoat pocket. Fingers fumbling, his expression grimacing with pain until she produced his handkerchief. In careful, slow circling gestures, she dabbed and wiped at the spittle of blood still coating his lips and trickling into his beard.

Amon reached for her once more. With one arm around her he urged her closer, while stroking the side of his other hand to her cheek.

“My Essätha,” he crooned; voice faltering and faint. “My darling Essätha.”

Her breath hitched, tears spilling out from the corners of her eyes as he leaned close to her. He breathed deeply; inhaling the aroma of her skin. Fingers grazed beneath her chin, holding her steady as he pressed his lips lightly to her own.

He had returned. He came back to them.

Her heart jumped as he pulled away, gasping. His forehead pressed to hers, staring intimately into her eyes while rubbing away the trails of tears from beneath her eyes.

He… he’d wanted to come back. He wanted to be here. He wanted to live. Even with the opportunity to be at rest and with peace, having Marie and no longer needing to struggle and fight through even just the mundane day to day of daily life. Even with the possibility danger, strife, battle, war, famine, disease, hunger; he choose life. Missing Marie, feeling guilty and deserving of punishment for the crime that had taken Fontane’s life, he still decided to come back to them.

He loved them. Lord Amon Thomas Illiad loved them. He decided on them. On the time he might yet still have to do good, and to be with them. To travel and to defend the world. To learn and to love. To see what could come next, no matter good or bad.

Essätha reached for his perfect chiseled face, and kissed him. More forcefully than what was necessary. Urgent and burning with her longing for him; her aching love that burned like an inferno. Flames never settling, until she was engulfed in the blaze that did nothing but warm her so thoroughly, inside and out.

Awkwardly, a few of the others tore themselves away from the lingering kiss. Her clinging touch holding to him. The romantic murmur of his name curled on her tongue as she breathlessly whispered to him her love, pressing her lips to his over and over again.

She felt the tired smile of his mouth as he lazily tried to reciprocate. The roughness of his palm moving, cradling her face gingerly as she so tenderly dotted his face with kisses.

He had picked them, and what precious time he could still have on this earth.

And in her heart, she knew without a doubt, she picked him. Infinitely and always, she would pick him. Forever. No matter what. She had given him access to her heart, and he had tended to the gnarled thing in her chest with great care until he could pluck the great bloom he’d crafted, and unbeknownst to her, tucked it into his own chest for safekeeping. He had a piece of her that no one else did; saw shards of her vulnerability she tried to hide. She trusted him. With everything she had, she trusted him.

For now, she could settle for holding him. But she would need to tell him, one day, the deepest yearning of her heart. That she wanted no other; needed no other, with every dawn of the sun and beat of her heart, he was her everything.

Lord Amon Thomas Illiad was her future, and the keeper of her heart.

[yukiwrites]

Not All’s Lost

In homage to Ray in Fire Emblem: Awakening

Not even in her worst nightmares – and she was seeing them a lot of late – could she have seen a sight as horrendous as the one before her. The undead rose and took arms with the intent of breaking every single strategy she had built for that moment.

“Risen... How... Y-your Grace, I... Forgive me... Uhh...”

Every single one.

“Phila!”

Robin closed one eye in distress, her heart thumping so loud inside her ears that she couldn’t even hear the Mad King’s laughter. “No, no, no…”

Gaellus moved uncomfortably beside her, feeling her anguish at the same time her prince muttered words of defeat.

“We’ve lost…!” He cursed under his breath as he squeezed his knuckles with such strength he trembled.

A plan. She needed to devise one quickly. Quickly!

Robin looked around, her wide eyes absorbing every bit of information possible about their newly found enemy as well as their positions. Archers. Most of them equipped with either Steel or Killer bows, but one or two with Longbows.

Those are the most dangerous ones, she thought while clutching her Archthunder tome under her coat. She could hear an argument in the distance, though she could only discern the voice of her prince.

“I’ll… KILL you!” His voice seethed with anger, the trembling going all the way to his shoulders as one hand clutched over Falchion’s grip. Instinctively, Robin grasped onto Gaellus’ reigns, Chrom’s anger bleeding through herself.

A plan.

Apparently the archers were only summoned right in front of them – if they used the cavalry to stomp over them while the foot soldiers (counting the Royals, of course) retreated, they could save the more lives possible, though of course they wouldn’t be unscathed. There was also the possibility of muscling their way through the undead, however the sorceress who summoned them was too far away for an arrow or a tome to reach her – before they could, she would summon more and obliterate them.

There was no way to simply turn back and run for the archers, especially the ones wielding longbows, would surely pursue.

Robin looked up to the captive Exalt, so high up she had to squint. Her heart bled with regret and worry; Emmeryn had given the tactician her blessing and trust during the short time they travelled together. She was not only a treasured friend, but a leader of unparalleled charisma and would be greatly missed.

But… Robin’s line of thought brought her gaze to the man beside her; to his raw rage and powerlessness. They couldn’t lose another royal. They couldn’t lose him… She couldn’t lose him.

She unconsciously reached out to his arm, as she did many times in the past, and touched his Branded shoulder as though she was comforting him. Her touch cleared his mind of the question blurring his mind.

“The gods are cruel, damn them! My sister or my duty... A problem with no right answer, yet I must choose…!” His voice shook with such a deep regret Robin had to gulp so as to swallow the tears that sprung up in her eyes.

After doing so, she glanced to the sides, meeting Platoon Leaders Stahl and Sully’s eyes before nodding to Frederick, who was beside Lissa. He grimaced and his shoulders sagged as he touched the princess’. “I know it's hard to admit, Chrom, but it's the only choice. Compared to the lives of thousands, one person, any one person, is—”

“DON’T!” He interrupted without turning back, slightly lowering his head in desperation; his ears red and his shoulders trembling. “Just… don’t say it.”

His skin repelled her touch and Robin retracted her hand, feeling her field of vision narrowing around her. She brought the same hand onto which still lingered his warmth to her chest and took a deep breath, the Mad King’s laughter and hateful speech only fueling her resolve.

As soon as she pulled Gaellus’ reigns in order to mount him, a clear, albeit distant voice made every single pair of eyes turn themselves to it. “Stop this at once!”

Plegian and Ylissean alike were forced to look at the dignified pose of the Exalt up at the Fell Dragon’s rib. “SILENCE!” The Mad King tried to order, but although his voice was louder, it lacked the conviction Emmeryn’s had.

“Sis…” Chrom murmured, his chin slightly trembling. Robin looked around, noticing how even Aversa, she who had summoned the Risen, was entranced by the Exalt’s radiance, making the undead space out in their positions.

However, no matter how much conviction she had, her voice was still too far up to be heard. “King Gangrel, is there no hope you will listen to reason?”

Once again Robin searched for something, but this time within the troops. The mages were stationed at the entrance of the castle grounds, a few paces from where the tactician stood. “Miriel, amplify her voice with wind magic. And tone Gangrel’s down while you’re at it.”

Immediately did the mage open her Rexcalibur tome.  “Acknowledged.”

Gangrel’s yells slowly were getting quieter to anyone but him, though Emmeryn, high up on the perch she was placed, could understand what he meant by the hate overflowing through his actions. She simply closed her eyes with grief before her brother spoke up.

“ALL RIGHT! All right... Emm, I know you won't approve, but this is my final decision.” Chrom took a step forward, unnoticed by both witch and Risen as he touched the shield on his arm. Robin started to feel something deep in her stomach – a bad feeling. “MAYBE someday we'll face a crisis where MAYBE the Emblem would've helped. But I know for a fact that Ylisse needs you, today!” He started unbuckling the legendary shield from his arm, looking at his sister rather than to the King who wanted the artifact the most. “The people need their exalt... And we need our sister.” He almost whispered the last part, but Miriel was a smart woman – she amplified it only for Emmeryn’s ears. Chrom’s frown never left his face as he finally looked up at Gangrel, Fire Emblem in hand. “If those dark days should come, we'll face them together.”

We have Gaius, Robin’s head thundered with action – she couldn’t let him handle that shield to the enemy! It was far too powerful for that, and although she couldn’t remember why she knew that, she was betting on her gut to take them out of there. If someone nimble were to steal the emblem… if someone would shoot the receiver… if someone would throw an axe with a rope tied to the Exalt… if if if. Robin was running out of time and she felt that something terrible was going to happen, regardless of in which hands the Emblem would end up in.

Mayhap it was Miriel’s magic, but Robin could hear—she heard as Emmeryn took a step forward. “Chrom…” Her voice was so full of love. Such longing and pure, raw love for her siblings and her people. The Exalt was ready to play the most important paper of her life. “Th-thank you,” the burden of it made her throat close up, but just one look deep into her brother’s eyes made her steel her resolve, “I know now what I must do.”

“She’s gonna jump.” Robin immediately whispered to herself, feeling a sudden urge to take everyone out of there.

Chrom had heard her. “What…?” He turned his head to his tactician before shooting it back up to his sister. “Sis, what are you—”

Robin’s head once again exploded with plans, routes and emergency retreats. She jumped over her black Pegasus, Gaellus, and adjusted its reigns. “We need to leave, now!”

“Plegians!” Emmeryn’s voice thundered with the help of the wind. Robin’s entire body shook with regret as she dreaded to look up. The Exalt had lifted both hands, as though in a public apparition to her beloved people. “I ask that you hear the truth of my words! War will win you nothing but sadness and pain, both inside your borders and out.”

She’s gonna jump, Robin’s voice echoed on Chrom’s head as his appalled eyes turned to hers. They were almost hollow, as though the weight of responsibility had aged her instantly.

“Have you not any memories of the last war? We were in the wrong to immerse ourselves in such blood-letting, only to fuel your rage now, years later!” She continued her speech, tears almost leaving her eyes just by thinking of the starving families that had lost their able men to this unthinkable fighting. “Men and women bearing arms – your families, your friends, your loved ones… Are they not suffering with this cycle of hate? Will they be satisfied once this war ends up soaking the land with your blood only to fuel more hate from this side?” She clutched her hands over her chest, quickly glancing at her oldest friend and companion’s limp body, right below her.

Before his heart could send one beat, Chrom’s body moved instantly towards the horde of Risen – towards the Fell Dragon’s ribcage. However, it was as though the air was heavier – his movements felt slow and arduous, contrary to how rasped and urgent his breathing was.

NO!, Robin thought, seeing the blue-haired prince lunging himself in the middle of the enemy. Gaellus reared in response to her intense feelings and Robin devised a strategy immediately. “Frederick, stay with Lissa! CLOSE HER EYES!” She yelled as she galloped towards the frontlines and took Kellam’s shield before he could react. “Stahl, Sully! Formation fifteen! I’ll go through the middle!”

Both knights’ horses reared as they urged their squads to move out, the archers being taken by surprise but still ready to attack. Chrom rushed in their midst, swinging a glowing Falchion like a blade of doom, spreading a second death over those corpses.

However, there were too many to count – and Robin couldn’t take flight lest they pierced through Gaellus’ wings.

Each heartbeat was a step as she twirled the gigantic shield overhead and placed it on her back, gluing her body on the black Pegasus’ neck. “Run over them, Gaellus!” She ordered, almost losing the blue out of sight in the middle of all the red.

Instead of ramming onto them, the stubborn Pegasus opened its wings, ready to fight its last battle.

“Gaellus!” Robin protested as they took a shallow flight, enough for him to stomp over some Risen’s heads as she instinctively used her tome. Both of her hands were busy with holding the shield and book, leaving the reigns free for the flying mare to command.

It’s also my fight, she could almost hear him say. His flight limped as an arrow cleared through one of his wings, but he kept flying.

As another one tore a hole in the other wing, he kept flying. As three Killer arrows hit it on the torso and stomach, Gaellus kept flying.

Robin spun the shield overhead, ricocheting a good number of arrows, but that came with a price – her own leg was hit with one. However her eyes were ever focusing on the raging prince in front of her. “From my hand,” she whispered repeatedly, “strike the foe in front of me! Archthunder!” The tactician huffed over and over, not paying any mind to the increasing number of injuries in her body – she was focusing on the enemies who tried to strike Chrom down from behind.

“See now how one selfless act has the power to change the world!” Were the last words spoken through Miriel’s magic as the skies started to darken.

“EMMERYN!” Chrom felt his throat almost rip apart, not only due to the desperation in his voice, but at the thought of seeing his sister – as she walked to the edge and opened her arms in such a dignified way.

For the last time.

Gaellus once again neighed in pain, not able to fly any longer. He rammed on three archers before using the momentum to keep galloping forward, almost catching up to the prince. Robin, however, spun the shield overhead one last time before throwing it right behind the prince – he had stopped running for there was no more reason to.

Emmeryn was finally within arm’s reach – but has never been farther away. The shield landed straight up with a thud on the ground immediately on the prince’s back, sticking itself like a symbol of peace protecting both Chrom’s body and his mind from the battle happening a few paces behind him.

Finally regaining control, Robin took the reins and turned Gaellus around. “For one last fight, my friend.” She whispered gravely as the Pegasus reared with the last of its strength at the same time the final ray of light shone on the battlefield. “I WILL CHANGE THE COURSE OF BATTLE!” She yelled before shooting her hand up. “From the sky, to the group of enemies in front of me! ARCHTHUNDER!”

A golden ball of electricity exploded five meters in front of her, scattering the immediate Risen away from Robin, opening a path. Sully and Stahl had used Robin’s breaking through the archers’ formation to their advantage by surrounding the enemies with their squads of cavaliers; as soon as Robin finally turned her eyes to the fight, they had an advantage.

The tactician urged her beast to the middle of their numbers, calling upon enchantments and yelling strategies with the same breath. With the corner of her eye, she saw the Feroxi detachment arriving.

Their cue!

Her body fought and bled while her mind worked: They had an escape route devised that would cut through Plegian territory towards the Ylissean bit before reaching to Ferox. That would require them to pass through the rest of the Fell Dragon’s bones into the desert ravine.

She turned around to the kneeling prince, guarded by the shield who deflected some three arrows from ending the war in the worst way possible and meant to get off Gaellus.

The arrow she had taken to the leg not only was still stuck there, it pierced through the pegasus’ ribcage as well. Gaellus huffed, trying to fold back down his wings – if there were any feathers left, that is. He could not walk and carry her any longer.

“Gkh!” Robin bit her own hand as she pulled the arrow with vigor, jumping down of her Pegasus right after. “Chrom, we have to go! Flavia and Basilio found our escaping route!” She limped towards her prince – her small, lost prince.

His face was somber and his shoulders shook so much more than before – his hands, Robin could see, were bleeding under the gloves, given the strength he was using to clench them so. His chest went up and down quickly, as though to bring himself back to reality as he tried and hesitated to reach out to his bleeding sister.

Oh, how much she bled. Her life – her life was ebbing away.

“Chrom…” Robin limped once again towards him, the blood flowing from her leg joining Emmeryn’s as it slid down the stairs onto which Gaellus waited.

The Mad King’s laughter made the Prince’s head shoot up. “DAMN YOU, GANGREL!”

The sound of hurried steps and gallops made Robin turn back to the approaching cavalry. “No, boy! I secured an escape route! We have to flee!” Basilio panted from far away, waving to the duo. Stahl and Sully brought horses from the recently fallen comrades for both Chrom and Robin, but Gaellus stood in the way, pushing Robin with its big head.

Not sure which of the overwhelming amount of emotions to feel, Robin simply stroked the pegasus’ head and took one last step forward to touch the Branded shoulder once again.

Man and woman needn’t words. He raised his pitiful gaze towards her and she felt an immense urge to hug him. “B-but… her body...” he turned to the now lifeless Exalt in front of him – she still looked so warm despite the pool of blood increasing around her, “I have to…”

“Chrom, we have to survive this first! For her!” Robin panted, seeing her vision blur. “Come on!” She pulled his arm, guiding him to Gaellus. “Take us out of here, friend.”