Chrom loved it when Robin got like this. The tactician was a man of many sides, and Chrom loved the duality of his gentleness and passion when he'd press his body down on his, wedging Chrom tightly between his own body and the bedding and making the prince feel the most secure he'd ever felt since his parents died.

"Is this okay?" Robin would ask. "Do I need to go slower?"

Chrom could only answer him with his body, too frenzied to speak and barely able to wryly note that Robin could talk so matter-of-factly in the throes of passion. Shortly after, any thoughts would flee his mind as Robin slammed into him with more power that should be allowed, and of course he'd be able to find that spot so quickly and accurately.

But it was the way that Robin would touch him so delicately, caressing his torso, arms, face; the way his lips alternated between devouring his mouth and then touching them against his cheeks and eyelids with the lightness of a butterfly's wing that undid him.

Euphoria.

Emptiness.

Tightening his arms around Robin in a silent order (plea) to stay.

Stay.

Don't you dare leave-

A brush of lips against his temple, so sweet and tender in its simplicity in quelling Chrom's thoughts. Slumber came by the lullaby of a heartbeat steadily thrumming in his ear. In the morning they'd awaken tangled together and Chrom would wish to wake up every morning like that for the rest of his life.

Wishes are such fragile things.