They stand at a place called Rolling Hills. What’s left of it, anyway. It’s more like a dirt mound now from the abuse it has suffered from the ongoing wars waged here. Claude and his team had been traveling non-stop for days before setting up camp, finally having a moment of respite from the Imperial Army. Claude had practically begged Byleth to spar with him before dragging her to a semi-secluded area when she eventually agreed.
Byleth’s sword is wooden, while not fatal it can still cause a mean bruise—he likes that, and some days he has to make a conscious effort to not intentionally get himself hit—and the tips of Claude’s arrows do not have their typical sharp metal points. Their real weapons are set to the side in case anything serious actually happens. Felix has complained incessantly about the fact the sparring weapons weren’t straight up fatal. “ Mere toys, ” he had called them, stating the rush of adrenaline from having your life threatened made you a better fighter. It was one of the rare moments Byleth actually seemed flabbergasted when she had to explain to him most people wouldn’t spar with actual pointy sticks and deadly magic.
But enough thinking about Felix.
It was time to think about the woman standing before him.
Claude outstretches his arm and holds his hand out to her, looking like the typical gallant prince one would see in hung tapestries and paintings. He curls two fingers and beckons Byleth to come at him.
He throws his usual wink and smile at her, “Well, shall we begin, Teach?”
Byleth immediately charges at him with a thrust that almost screams a killing intent, and her passion makes his smile turn into a feral grin. He evades easily enough by turning slightly, and jumping backwards, once, twice, thrice. Deeming he’s at acceptable distance he knocks his first arrow and fires. It would have hit her straight in the head.
But she parries it easily with just a flick of the wrist, her wooden sword not making the usual satisfying clang metal does.
They fall into an easy rhythm and he feels as though he has committed every movement Byleth makes to perfect memory. Her looming thrusts, her quick parries, her flashy strokes, her hypnotic swaying, her passion. All coalescing into a fiery dance of feet dashing to meet each other, only to immediately dart away and then rushing past to turn to do all again and again and again. She had thrust at his legs once, and the sword grazes his calf. Not enough to incapacitate but enough to surely leave a bruise for the next day. The pain and euphoria mingles with each other, and Claude bites his lip to avoid moaning.
Now’s not the time to get turned on.
He relishes these moments, of the kicking of dirt with every movement they make, breathing the same air, sweating in unison. Every shift in his muscles feels like a thrill. Nothing in the world matters now except for her glaring eyes and aggressive maneuvers.
She gives another relentless charge at him, and this time he responds with one of his own; arrow nocked in his bow. When she’s about to make a swing on him he drops on his knees, the momentum of his run making him slide across the dirt. He has to arch his back to actually get under her blade, being as tall as he is.
Time slows, and as he passes beneath her sword, he can see her eyes follow him.
Oho, do I detect a hint of surprise on that face?
He passes her, and while still sliding on his knees he turns the upper half of his torso to shoot his arrow.
It grazes her shoulder. Byleth stops her own momentum from charging by rolling on the ground, before immediately standing up and taking her fighting stance. Claude meanwhile casually stands up and wipes some dirt off his pants. For a moment they only stare in silence, but then Byleth speaks, her voice breathy.
“That was quite the move. How long have you been practicing that?”
He shrugs and huffs a laugh, “For about two minutes.”
He feels a perverse sense of pride seeing her quirk her lips, she’s impressed he managed pull a spur of the moment idea so successfully in the heat of battle.
Nice. High-five, me.
He re-positions himself back into his fighting stance by bending his knees slightly and getting another arrow before he hears Byleth’s voice again.
“That was awfully flashy of you to do.”
“When am I not flashy?” He winks.
They continue their dance, blows falling like raindrops. Byleth jumps over a series of arrows aimed at her feet and he’s forced to block an oncoming swing to his head with his own bow, the wood coming together with a clack . He knees bend and a leg has to step back to support his body, he can feel the effort that is required to brace for her strength. They stand there, arms shaking as both put all their strength into pushing the other back.
Then, she spits at his face.
He unconsciously turns his head away to avoid it, but the action is enough for Byleth to let go of her sword with one hand to grab at his bow. His momentary distraction made him loosen his grip and his weapon is unceremoniously shoved out of his hands and thrown across the field. The tip of the wooden sword is placed centimeters away from his neck.
“Yield.” Is all Byleth has to say to him.
He puts his hands up in mock defense, “Dirty trick. I must be rubbing off on you.” His pants through his nose and he tries to regain his breathing for his next plan of attack.
Before Byleth can place the sword properly against his neck and tell him to yield again, he tackles her to the ground. The sword flies out of her hands and she lands on the ground with a grunt. Claude wastes no time in grabbing her hands and putting them above her head, pinning her down.
“Yield.” He says, with a shit eating grin.
She gives him a look that tells him she’s thoroughly unimpressed, and before he can make a comment on it he feels her legs wrap around his waist and with considerable force in her thighs and arms she pushes him over, reversing their positions. She releases one of his hands to put her muscular forearm against his throat, applying enough pressure to make breathing just a teensy bit difficult.
He gasps. And he knows his eyes are half-lidded when she adds slightly more pressure.
Now, it’s her turn to have a shit eating grin. “ Yield, now. ”
He licks his lips, and his breathing increases despite her arm on his neck. He’s sure she can feel his thunderous heartbeat even under her armour. A split-second decision assaults him, and he figures he has nothing to lose now.
He spits at her face.
And unlike her, he hits his target.
He growls, “ Fucking make me, Teach. ”
The look she gives him can only be described as dangerous as she looks genuinely, unmitigatedly pissed the fuck off.
Goosebumps assail Claude’s body, and he has to stop himself from shivering violently.
Truly, honestly afraid.
And he loves it.
To his surprise, the weight on both his body and neck is lifted. Catching up on his breathing, he sees her stand up and step away from him. Her hair drips over her shoulders like blood, and she looks at him with a glare, like he’s nothing but dirt. It really shouldn’t make him as aroused, but it does.
He stands, and when he does she takes a fighting stance. Fists ready to attack.
He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, feeling the drool that had started to form on his lips.
“Fist fight, huh? Alright, alright.” And he takes his own fighting stance. Their discarded weapons completely forgotten.
There’s sweat droplets trailing down her nap and clavicle, and her eyes are icy cold. Intense. But also… feral.
His adrenaline makes him ignore his growing arousal and they both charge forward. He does a simple swinging punch that she easily sidesteps, retaliating with a fist to the stomach. He splutters heavily and counters her with a kick to the knee that’s successful in connecting. She narrows her eyes at the feeling but continues her assault, trying to uppercut him but he manages to avoid the impact.
Her displeasure gives Claude new strength and vigor. He jabs at her face with an elbow and is again successful, but she manages to grab at his collar and pulls him so hard he hears the slight rasp of material tearing. She throws him over her and he lands on the ground with a thud.
She’s about to punch him in the face again but her fist connects with the ground when he rolls over and quickly stands up, springy like a deer. He does a roundhouse kick in an attempt to send her flying, but she ducks down underneath and Claude swears he sees a hint of a smirk on her lips. Before he can properly register her dodge he feels a quick jab at his stomach, then another body-shot at his ribs, sending fresh and delicious ripples of pain through his torso. These bruises he’ll have the next morning... He’ll wear them like a crown, and press down on them when next he’s palming at his cock at the thought of Byleth roughing him up.
Maybe now is the time to get turned on.
Byleth tries to give him another uppercut, which he just barely avoids. He grabs onto her shoulders with the intent of throwing her down, but she then grabs onto his own shoulders. Before he can take a good look of her expression—it’s one that tells him she’s going to eat him alive —she headbutts him. He lets go of her shoulders from the sudden pain on his face, and he tastes blood. Her grip on him tightens, and he’s roughly shoved to the ground, landing on his stomach.
Before he can think about getting up, he feels the weight of a knee on his back. A hand entangles itself in his hair and he’s pulled up slightly before his face is shoved back down in the dirt. She keeps him there. The pressure of her hold on his hair pushing him further into the ground.
He wheezes, “I yield! I yield!” He dry-heaves, catching his breath and eventually spits out some blood in his mouth, “You sure live up to your reputation of being the Ashen Demon.”
Byleth leans in and gives him a guttural and low whisper, “You, Claude von Riegen, are a tease. ” This time he doesn’t even try hiding the heated groan that comes out of him. She responds by pulling him up and shoving him down again, harder this time.
With her hand and knee still on him he hears the clinking of her belt being removed, then when it’s thrown on the ground her knee shifts to his lower back. It’s uncomfortable and its discomfort he’s used to at this point. Not that he minds much, anyway.
Her free hand takes his arms one-by-one and folds them behind his back. He doesn’t bother resisting, allowing her to do as she pleases with his now limp body. Her prize . The hand in his hair disappears as apparently tying his wrists with her belt is a two-handed job. His arms now tightly secured, her hands are placed on either side of his head.
She grinds her knee on his back. He clenches his jaw and balls his hands into fists. She continues grinding, eventually putting enough weight and pressure on him that he gasps sharply before cursing.
But he’s still feeling a bit snarky. “Y-You can do better than that.”
“You’re right,” she snarls, “I can. But that’s not for brats like you to decide.”
The weight on his back disappears and the hands next to his head slithers away. He hears her stand up and then feels a weight on his head.
She’s put her foot on his head, the dirt from her boots caking his hair.
“I wonder,” she said casually while grinding her foot slightly, “How much pressure I would need to apply to make your skull crack.”
He knows she’d never actually put significant pressure on his cranium, but dammit if the humiliation of having a stronger individual’s foot on his head and grinding him into the ground isn’t just fucking divine. He trembles, but manages to stay still except for the flexing of his hands.
He blows a breath. He’s still got some snark left in him.
“I’m falling asleep here, Teach.” He says, but his voice quivers in excitement.
She applies just enough pressure on his head with her foot to make him groan out before she removes it. She re-positions herself so that both of her feet are on either side of his hips, and then she lowers herself to her knees. She leans in and an arm slithers around Claude’s neck in a choke-hold. Then, she leans back, and he has to get on his knees. Considering the difference between their heights and her hold on him, he’s forced to arch his back to an awkward degree while in this position. He exhales an annoyed breath.
There’s a tap on his ass before her hand greedily grabs a handful of his cheek. She roughly kneads at him, occasionally pinching his asscheek.
“You lost the right to get annoyed when you spat at me.” She says harshly, pinching him harder.
He snorts. “You did it first.”
He gasps when the hand pinching him lets go and swiftly takes his pants and underwear down in one motion.
“You,” she emphasizes the word by tightening her choke-hold, “and I are different. Professor and student. I can do things you can’t. Simple.”
“For a professor, that’s a pretty piss poor ex— ah !” He’s cut off with a swat to the rear. He’s a light swat, likely it was no more than a simple flick of the rest on Byleth’s part but it was surprising all the same. She lazily rubs and massages the spot she hit, and just when he inhales a breath and opens his mouth she hits him with a full swing of her arm.
“Don’t talk.” The tone she uses is one he has fondly dubbed the “Frosty Ice Queen Bitch.” It’s harsh and, well, cold. And as if he’s feeling that very same coldness, he shivers.
She hits him again, and again, and again. All at the same spot with frightening precision and accuracy and he can feel his skin begins to feel a nice sting as she progressively swats at him harder. When she hits particularly hard at his now swelling skin, he clenches his cheeks. His breathing turns frantic, but he bites his lip to prevent any noises coming through. The only noises are his chaotic breathing and the echoing crackling of skin every time she hits him.
She told him to not talk. Commanded .
For as much as he likes to be a brat, he likes following these types of orders more.
She caresses his arse with the palm of her hand, then down over his upper thighs. The moment of respite doesn’t last very long, as she continues her relentless assault on his tender flesh tenfold. She’s spanking harder and faster, and he’s sure his ass is turning a nice dark shade of pink.
He’s squirming alot now but no matter how he might move and gyrate his hips away she always lands on her damnable target. He unconsciously tugs at the restraints holding his arms together, the belt starting to bite into his skin. She’s got an infuriatingly steady rhythm, completely in control while he’s losing his composure. And when she starts to alternate between hitting the back of his thighs and his arse he bites his lip hard enough he bleeds.
He finally relents on his abused bottom lip to open his mouth to breath, panting heavily and giving loud puffs. Rather than pink, his arse is probably a healthy shade of red. He’s sure of that, because Byleth slows down her pace and eventually ends with light tapping. He gasps at air like he’s drowning, takes a shaky gulp and shifts on his knees uncomfortably.
He feels fingers dabbing at his face.
“No tears?” She sounds positively gleeful about that, “We’ll soon change that.”
He figures he’s followed her order long enough. Time to be brat again.
“Y-You..hah, you just want to be beat me more.”
She responds by releasing her choke-hold and shoving his face back in the dirt before turning him on his side. She spits at something several times. He finds out she spat on her fingers when she places a damp finger on his sweltering cheek and presses down, causing him to inhale sharply. “Is that why you wanted to spar? Because you wanted to get a beating?” she presses down harder.
He whines, low and pathetic. The finger pressing down on him stops, and moves in-between his cheeks.
Claude swallows dryly. The motions of Byleth drawing little circles around his puckered entrance makes his mind suddenly buzz
He’s about to make a snide remark about her being shy and not entering him, but she suddenly jabs her finger inside of him. He yelps, and he’s pretty sure his entire body lifted off the ground from the jump he gave.
The finger drew out and thrusts back in hastily, rather than slowly. She’s not giving him a moment of reprieve. The sudden intrusion and the quickness of her movements makes his entire body squirm.
He moaned into the ground as pleasure climbed up his spine. Her finger may be slim, and smaller than his own, but it still stretches him nicely and stroked spots he hadn’t touched himself yet. If he were on a bed and unbound, he’d be clutching on the sheets for dear life right about now.
She doesn’t even bother teasing in her second finger, opting to just stick it inside him knuckle deep immediately. He squeals, with a voice much higher-pitched than he would like to admit.
“Brats,” she stretches her fingers into a V shape, which promptly made Claude whimper, “Don’t deserve slow and teasing touches. You don’t deserve to have it taken slowly. You can take my fingers roughly just fine.”
Goddess, she’s right. She’s so right. I’m so fucking good at taking her fingers.
She was tying the most exquisite and tight knots in his stomach by stretching her fingers in and out, pulling them in and out. He keeps squirming, and he’s not sure what he’s doing with his legs but they move back and forth on their own.
Panting breaths and quiet, desperate whines gain speed as Byleth continues her relentless speed that makes his mind hazy.
She curls her fingers into a hook, and presses down.
She’s found his prostate. And she keeps pushing down on it.
“H-Haah..!! Hnnng—ahh…. Ha!” His cock twitches loudly, already hard from his spanking and rough handling, and he grunts aloud. He arches his back from her pushing down on his most sensitive area, and arches further than he thought possible. His toes curl and he feels as though Byleth will shatter him like glass.
“What’s the matter Claude?” she asks as she continues to hook, curl, and pump her fingers in and out, “Where’d that smart tongue go? Made speechless by just two fingers? What would your fellow soldiers think, seeing their precious leader undone so quickly?” She speeds her fingers even more, and Claude wheezes a messy sound. “Maybe I should call them over, show them this spectacle you’re giving me. Wouldn’t that be nice? Everyone’s favourite Alliance leader turned into everyone’s favourite Alliance whore.”
She leans down and before he can properly register her movement he feels teeth on the abused flesh of his asscheek.
And Byleth bites him hard.
He tenses around her fingers and screams before biting down on his lip again. His legs continue their frantic movements and his hips try to escape from Byleth’s mouth but he has no choice but to surrender to her ministrations. She pulls on him with her teeth, but only slightly, before sucking on him hard. She leaves a hickey on his ass when she finally lets go. The red teeth marks are red and angry.
“You’re such a tease,” she says again as she adds a third finger without any warning, causing Claude to whimper and clench again, “You only wanted to spar because you wanted me to fuck you.”
He gives a needy whine, “Nnnng.. Hnn—hah—nnng..”
“Isn’t that so?” Her three fingers stretch out, making his hole gape. He feels tears sting the corner of his eyes.
“Isn’t that so?” She bites as him again at a different spot on his cheek, but it’s just as painful and vicious.
He gasps, body convulsing and his tears flowing freely. An enormous pressure fills his lower stomach and he feels as though he’s about to burst.
“Y-Yes! It is…!” He screams, before nodding fitfully, whimpering needily and crying in earnest.
She mercifully releases him of her teeth before turning him so he’s lying on his back, legs open and knees bent at the chest. Claude locks eyes with Byleth, she’s grinning with a sharp and unwavering stare. He on the other hand gazes at her with glassy eyes and a tear-streaked face. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. His cock leaks on his stomach. When her three fingers roughly jam themselves knuckle deep in him and curls, he throws his head back. Claude rolls his hips in an attempt to take her harder.
He tries lifting his head back up but her free hand grabs onto his neck and pins him down. He gulps at air, stutters, arches his back; his pulse thundering against her hand.
She fucks him like she’s wearing a strap-on. Relentless. Persistent. Unforgiving.
He cums with a withered cry and sobs. His whole body convulses violently as pearly white cum streaks his stomach.
When he finishes ejaculating she’s slowly exits him, he only gives a low hnnng in response and shivers. His body becomes limp and his throat is sore from crying. Her hand leaves his throat and after some shuffling he feels a cold rim of a snakeskin pouch and the water that accompanies it.
“Here, drink.” she says, softly and kindly.
He huffs but obliges. After he’s done drinking he fixes her with a grin. “W-Was that an order?” He’s still congested, snot trailing down his face. He takes thick swallows and sharp intakes of breath to recompose himself.
“Bit late to ask that after I’ve given you some, don’t you think?” She says casually, before tenderly moving him to his side so that she can unbind his arms. “You know, I thought you were pretty close to saying your safeword there.”
“When you bit me? Y-Yeah, that was pretty intense.” Then his voice is filled with mirth, though his face is still a complete mess, “But I wouldn’t want to spar with you so badly if I couldn’t take a bit of pain. W-Well, a lot of pain. But you know I like that.”
His arms unbound, he gingerly rubs at his wrists. Byleth inspects his backside.
“I’ll get some ointment from Marianne. When we get back I’ll massage and clean you.” She leans in to kiss one of the bite marks, “Massage you everywhere. Spoil you rotten,” she whispers against his skin, her breath feeling like a feather.
“You always spoil me.”