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Kinktober 2019

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            The wall rattles behind them with every slap, picture frames clattering as they bounce against the brick. Grunts and whispers and whimpers trail between the floorboards, through the tiny slits in the door, inevitable in construction, destruction. There are no guards outside, surely, stationed quite a bit away perhaps in knowledge of the absolute lack of proper respect their new leaders have. Not the tiniest bit of tact.

            “Goddess.” Claude laughs, and moans, and sighs, hands combing through Byleth’s locks, smiling down at her. It’s a rarity for them to play so late, moon long risen, a long day’s work sagging at their shoulders. But Claude had poked and prodded and taunted Byleth throughout the meetings, the lectures, even their prayers, and he was certain that she was riling with fury.

            No wonder Seteth detested them. Well, Claude, mostly.

            “You are ridiculous.” Byleth’s words are hardly scathing, accompanied with an echoing smack at the flesh of his thigh. Claude moans, his hands gentle as they play with her hair. He’s taunting, teasing, and they know it both. She’s undoubtedly going to pay him back for this.

            For now, deep into the dark night, she is simply content on pressing him against the wall, mouthing at the head of his cock otherwise buried in her breasts. Byleth smirks, pressing her breasts together and rocking upward in slow thrusts, thriving in the responding shiver and gasp.

            “Am I? I think that you like me like this.” Claude’s chuckle is thrown into a low moan as Byleth licks at his head. His hips tremble, threatening to thrust, though he knows better to do so without permission. Byleth could have him over the table and ass red in a matter of moments, and though the thought excites him, he knows they are both too tired for such a long scene.

            “Pain in the ass.” As though Byleth has any room to talk. Her hand swats again at his ass, earning her a shout. Claude grins, fingers tracing the shell of her ear, poking at her cheek. He loves her, loves this. Her eyes delight as he hums, knees pressed against her shoulders, eyes lidded, cheeks flushed, the same cheeky smile planted firmly on his face. Significantly less artificial, with her.

            “Your pain in the ass.” He’s earned another spank, clearly, though it does little but make him wriggle against the wall, smile firmly planted on his face. Byleth’s roll of her eyes is, dare he say, affectionate, and then she’s down to lick and kiss at the head of his dick again, breasts squished tight against him. Claude moans, feeling his legs tremble, hand caressing the nape of her neck.

            It doesn’t take long for him to cum into her mouth, sighing soft, high. Byleth continues suckling at his dick, toothy grin forming at the soft whimpers and whines from the overstimulation. It isn’t until his fingers tighten in her hair, gasping, that she rears back.

            “Good?” Claude nods, weary, exhaustion taking ahold of him. He’s not quite satisfied though, not yet, seeing the pooling wetness in his beloved’s folds. She hums, amused, at his line of sight before standing tall, marching over to their bed.

            “Aww,” he sighs, mocking, loud, “why didn’t I get the bed?” Even as he pouts, his feet follow her obediently, allowing her to wrap her hands around his neck, pulling him flush to her.

            “You don’t deserve it,” Byleth’s grin is a delight to see. One hand pinches at his cheek and he nips at it, playful, high on the pleasure she so lovingly granted him. “Oh? Are you my little deer, or my little kitten, today?”

            Neither, honestly, though Claude’s retort is lost on his tongue as she pinches it firmly in her grasp. She pulls his face closer, the strands of his hair brushing the tops of her cheeks, before spilling her fingers out and pressing their mouths together. Claude moans, gentle, sweet, as Byleth licks and nibbles at his lip, hand forcing him deeper into her mouth. When he resurfaces for air, a line of drool in connection, her smile is lovely.

            “Put that mouth of yours to good use,” Byleth purrs, smile slipping easily into a crooked smirk. Claude pecks one more kiss onto her lips, a press of her tongues, before sliding down with a wink.

            “Yes, your royal majesty.” The swat at his head is entirely deserved, prompting another bought of chuckles. She’s slick and sticky along her thighs, and he nuzzles at them first, giving broad strokes of his tongue upward. Every drop from her cunt is worthy of worship, and he does so, licking up every loose trail dripping out.

            Byleth’s moan is deserving of the title goddess. Certainly, she is one, a literal definition of the word. Yet, as Claude laps at her cunt, pressing his lips at her entrance and sucking on her loose lips, eyes tracing the beginnings of a flush at her face, smile pulled into a self-satisfied smirk, he really is reminded of her power. Her beauty. Her grace.

            “What are you thinking about?” As though she doesn’t know. Claude chuckles, vibrations along her lips, the tickle of her hair against his nose. He sneaks a finger under her, into her, crooking it in her wet space. When he drags his tongue upward, lazy, heavy, her fingers dig into his head.

            He loves her. Loves this, on his knees, face pressed firmly into her crotch, licking at her juices, fingers pumping in to wax and wean more out of her. His tongue presses at her clit, earning him the lovely sight of her head thrown back, hair spilling onto the pillow below, framing her face like a crown. Glory, and beauty, and pleasure. The most sinful goddess, and Claude wants to indulge in every crook and fold of her.

            Her fingers pull at his hair, sharp tugs that cause him to moan against her. Every trace and pattern against her clit earns him a grunt or squeeze, and he grunts when her hips thrust against him, rough. Byleth fucks herself against his mouth, pinching at his cheeks and scratching at his scalp, her moans and grunts and hisses slurring into a soft stream. When her thighs tighten against his head, pressing against his ears, he moans against her clit.

            It could be the days’ worth of negotiations causing Claude’s tongue to sag heavy as he slows, suckling and pulling on Byleth’s lips. Her fingers slow, playing with his hair, scratching lightly at the underside of his chin. Claude purrs for her, a low vibration of his throat, her laugh delightful.

            “Alright, that’s enough.” Her wish is his command. Claude’s jaw falls loose, exhaustion taking him in the weary stretching he makes as she hauls him back onto the bed. Byleth’s smile presses against his lips as she lowers him against her, rolling lazily around the sheets. Her thighs slot around his, lazily pumping, and he wonders for a moment if he should have taken some recovery herbs. His thoughts must have been visible for Byleth to rear back, grinning.

            “It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?” Claude snorts—as if such a fact as ever stopped them before. Even so, her legs detangle from his, kicking up their abandoned blankets to better wrap around their waists. “How lucky, I’m feeling merciful.”

            “How kind,” Claude scoffs. The slap against his head is all sound, no pain, and he ducks against her breasts, eyes wide as he looks up to her. Her own eyes narrow in response, mouth pressed stern, before sighing and relaxing entirely, allowing him to rest against her.

            “Don’t push it. Remember to control yourself,” Byleth warns. Claude hums, content, warm against her body. He grasps the blanket and tugs it upward, sighing against her breasts as his eyes slip shut. It has been an awfully long day, territory disputes and trade negotiations equally exhausting, and he cannot blame her for wanting to rest. Her hand cards in his hair, and he sighs, breathing even.

            “Love you,” he murmurs. There’s a kiss at his scalp.

            “Love you too.”

-

            Fodlan is too beautiful to be locked up in a castle, especially now that fall has descended upon them. Claude hums, kicking his feet as he walks, careful eyes surveying the surroundings. Leaves crumple underneath his feet, breaking an otherwise silent stride. Leonie coughs at his side, picking at her robe, her sheathed weapon hanging from her back.

“Are you certain that her highness is alright with you not attending any meetings?” She doesn’t need to ask that. Claude grins, shrugging.

            “Sure.” Leonie frowns, clearly not impressed, as Claude hums, arms tucked behind his head. Her hands pick at the variety of bags hanging off her arms, a variety of gifts and toys for their friends collected from months of performing on the open road. When Claude had heard that she and Felix had made quite a name for themselves on performing various acts of swords play and sparring, he had been stunned into disbelief. It wasn’t until Byleth reminded him that it was his own suggestion that he had broken into laughter, patting at his old friend’s backs.

            “Right. I would pray for your ass, but I’m not sure if she’ll hit you harder or not for it.” Claude laughs, though he can’t hide the twitch of his eye, the flush of his cheeks. The manner of his… preferences in bed was a sore spot in war, and though he’s relaxed about it over the years, he can’t help but tense when prodded at. It helps that it’s Leonie poking fun at him.

            It helps even more that he’s certain most of his female friends are sadists. He’s never been able to figure out why, exactly, but it helps.

            “Don’t be mean,” he scolds, mocking. Leonie swats at his arm, bags crinkling, prompting another round of chuckles. She grimaces, turning away from him.

            “I regret agreeing to meet you,” Leonie scoffs. Yet, she fishes within the multitude of bags weighing down onto her arm, huffing victoriously when she presses a key into the palm of Claude’s hand. “Never talk about this with me, ever.”

            “And forget that Sylvain was right that you swiped his other key? No thanks,” Claude chuckles, tossing the key between his fingers. “Or was it Felix? It was Felix, wasn’t it?” his grin only widens as Leonie’s frown deepens, a steady flush of red at the top of her collar. “Hmm, and just what can I get for not letting slip to Sylvain that it was his childhood friend who stole his key?”

            “Don’t even start,” Leonie snaps, prodding at Claude’s arm. He tosses both hands up in surrender when her bags crinkle and smash against him. They’ve not even completed a third of the presents that they planned to hand out, and he’d prefer not to have Hilda scold him for messing up her precious cupcakes.

            “Okay, okay! I’ll be nice, I promise.” For today.

            The key slips into his pocket. He’ll need it.

-

            As the goddess of Fodlan, Byleth is fairly certain it’s only justice to extract vengeance on her beloved. He deserves it, so rightfully so, after riling her up meeting after endless meeting, knowing that they have nary a moment to properly… unwind. In the best and messiest of ways, nothing but the pure satisfaction of seeing him with tears in his eyes and marks across his chest, all a result of her hands.

            It’s vengeance.

            For as playful and friendly as Byleth has seen Claude act amongst friends and in their private chambers, he is a stark difference in the council room. His eyes, lidded, shining, dangerous, dart from prey to prey, pretty words honey on his tongue as he waxes elegant poetry from nothing. Every glance, every shake, every trace of his fingers on the glossy tabletop is a reminder of his power and his origin—he is the heir of Almyra, the heir of Fodlan, and the one destined to open the walls and connect the two.

            The other nobles fear him for this, perhaps, but the sparkling glimmer in his eye has never been anything but lovely to Byleth.

            Eyes turn to her when she speaks, drawing circles on the spread map between them. Negotiations have gone on for too long, as far as she’s concerned. Two weeks, nearly, eaten up by men who refuse to relent in any sense of the way, piling further official documents and papers into their leader’s hands. Byleth huffs, neatly tucking away a hair, as she shifts in her seat. Claude’s hand rubs at her back, placating, kind, though the movement downward to cup at her ass is entirely unnecessary.

            Fine. Her hand squirrels downward to pinch at his, earning her an amused quirk of brows and him discreetly creeping forward onto the table, indicating another section of the map. The nobles are taken in with his words, eying the fine lines divvying their borders, as Byleth’s hand creeps up. She catches Seteth’s eye for a moment, his mouth set in a firm line, though he turns away. Out of modesty, out of shame for his perverse rulers, she doesn’t care to know.

            “We should consider how the commoners of Brigid feel, especially along border lines.” Byleth would spank him now, across the table, if it weren’t for the men crowding around, crowing about nonsense in response to his offering. Her hand cups his ass, pinching the curve of the flesh at the tops of his thighs, and slips her hands inward to grope at his inner region.

            His voice quivers as he speaks and she smiles. Byleth leans forward, elbows pressing onto the table, eyes surveying though all others are pressed onto the territory highlighted. Her hand creeps upward, pinching at the fabric of his pants, smoothing it down, rubbing small circles into his thighs. His earrings jingle the slightest as he speaks, torso turned away from her, arms spread as he speaks about everything and nothing.

            “I agree. We are a unified front, after all,” Byleth snakes her arm upward, pleasantly cupping at his waist, the perfect picture of a happy king and queen. The nobles around visibly soften at the motion, surely pleased with how regal their kingdom is, at the very least, in their narratives. Byleth tugs Claude’s waist, intending on pulling him close to the chair so she can properly grope him under the table. When he chuckles, pulling away with a wink, she pauses.

            “My beloved,” his grin is devious, and Byleth can do little to restrain the warmth bubbling at the sight, especially so when he leans in, “don’t tickle me during a meeting. Control yourself, remember?” Her own words said back at her sit in the air a moment, heavy, before Claude’s returned to speak false pleasantries with another noble’s concern about how not conquering Brigid were somehow a stain on their existence.

            “It’s really not ideal to fight with Brigid.” It’s justice that provokes her into pinching at his side, under the sash he’s so taken with wearing. Claude doesn’t react, arms gesturing as animated as usual, spouting nonsense. She pinches a second time, harsher, and nothing at all.

            Byleth relents, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. Claude continues speaking on his feet, rocking in place, before sitting down and tossing Byleth a sunny grin. Her smile back is as equally false as his niceties, and when he turns back to the council, there’s the lovely beginning of a blush at his ears.

            “Why don’t we shift our attention back to the rise of bandit activity on the ports of trade from Dagda?” Byleth’s words rings across the room before the nobles bow, hastening their supplies and shuffling their papers. They aren’t interested, not in the slightest, on any subject that doesn’t pay them in particular. It’s that very fact that makes it all the more difficult to rise every morning and descend onto this room, knowing that most of the discussions are filler words in an attempt to dress up the raw greed emanating from these scum.

            The knowledge that Byleth will have half of them in jail within the year’s end is her main satisfaction. But, well, she can be entertained in other ways.

            Claude leads the new discussion, pointedly reminding all about how crucial open trade gates are to maintaining a prosperous nation. It’s almost a shame that he’s doing so well when Byleth slips her hand under his pompous outerwear, sliding along the sheer undershirt. He shivers, breath catching just a moment, before returning to usual pace. Her fingers continue to travel upward, slow, careful to keep her other hand on the table, pressed forward. The perfect picture of a happy couple.

            When she manages to wriggle her fingers against his side, she’s rewarded with the smallest squeak.

            “W-we really ought to be focusing all of our attention on this topic,” Claude coughs. His eyes dart to hers, catching for just a moment. When she smiles at him, he shivers under her hand.

            Claude takes a moment before launching back into the conversation, perhaps just the slightest faster. Byleth waits, just resting at his side, as his eyes stay resolutely on the paper, muscles tense under her fingers. A noble makes a passing comment that earns them an angry lecture from Seteth; Claude and Byleth alike scoff at the pitiful excuses the noble makes. It is in that moment, the relaxing of his arms, that she skitters her fingers upward to pinch at his ribs.

            The lack of vocal response is disappointing, and yet, encouraging. Byleth continues waxing her fingers along his skin, acutely aware of the sudden tenseness in his jaw, the beginnings of his eye twitching. He’s smiling, just the curve of his lips, and his arms shake the slightest when he rocks back.

            It’s deserved, entirely, when she squeezes her hand into his underarm to pinch.

            “Ok-ay! Okay! Yes, yes, um,” Claude stumbles, red making itself present along his cheeks. Byleth can’t help her own laughter threatening at her throat as he squirms under her hand, eyes obvious as they dart between her and the others at the table. Seteth looks particularly concerned, or, rather, irritated. “Let’s, let’s, continue. All eyes, and ears, and hands, focused, please.” The hands comment earns him another pointed pinch, and though he shakes, his voice has steadied itself again.

            That’s fine. Byleth’s always enjoyed his fruitless struggles, notably the ones under her fingers. She snakes her hand downward, relenting, and his shoulders soften just a moment. It must be regret that catches him when she only claws at his stomach instead, and then he’s standing, alert, fully flushed.

            “I am afraid that I’ve forgotten I have an emergency to tend to. Please, let me be.” With that, his feet make a fast escape from the room, leaving Byleth to stare after him, stunned, and Seteth equally quiet. His eyes catch her own, and she sighs.

            “Let’s continue without him. I daresay we’ll be more productive this way.”

-

            Claude’s jumpiness when she catches him is entirely far too endearing. Guilt and fear spreads a smile wide on his face, cheek to cheek, and when Byleth does nothing but smile back, it only twitches, his hands anxious as he pinches at his clothes. She surveys their room—clearly, he’s make a pitiful attempt to organize it in the free time he’s acquired, and Byleth hums.

            “Oh, Byleth, my beloved, the goddess herself, the sweetest lady I have ever had the chance to lay eyes on…” Claude’s ramblings cut as Byleth takes a step forward, then another, until she’s at his face, eye to eye, lip ghosting lip. She’s tempted to take him into her hands, lay him across the table, spank him and leave him red.

            He has different plans, apparently.

            “I’ve got a key.” Oh? Byleth’s lips curl, and though he may as well be sweating arrows, Claude manages to curl his fingers around her waist, play flickering in his eyes. No doubt there’s an entire orchestra of schemes singing in his head, whispering a chorus of perverse possibilities. It brings her great joy to shatter his plans.

            “Tomorrow, then.”

With that, she presses a kiss against him, gentle, sweet, the caress of her fingers at his chin before walking past him into their shared quarters. Just as she opens their bathroom door, preparing to take a deserving long bath after such a day, she can hear him murmur under his breath.

            “Fuck.” She grins.

-

            For all his scheming, Byleth taking initiative to call him out, however subtly, was not in any of his predictions. Claude swallows as he slips the finagles the key from his pocket, donned in a sweeping grey robe, marching downtown. He knows the place—Byleth knows it as well, at this point, the meaning of a shimmering silver key left on her pillow. He hadn’t planned for them to play so soon, necessary, but he supposes it’s as deserved.

             The queen’s always enjoyed stealing his breath away, in battlegrounds and council rooms, especially so in bed. Claude swallows, tugging the hood of his robe further forth. It wouldn’t do much to hide his features, certainly, but picking at his clothing as a nervous tick he never quite managed to swallow down. It surfaces now, in most days, in him grasping the seats and Byleth forces moans and screams from his throat.

            He doesn’t have the luxury of bedsheets nor pillows to hide behind today, and the thought only makes him warmer.

            The room is awfully bleak when he steps into it, past olive green trees engraved with the smallest of delicate flowers in the stained glass. There’s the standard table of oils, tea and snacks on one side, and a remarkably filthier one set with a wide array of toys on the other. In the middle of the room is a small table, square with buckles fitted along the sides, hanging below a series of hooks from the ceiling. Claude finds the ropes under the table—loops and loops of soft red, threaded and burnt and threaded again to lay soft against the skin.

            Claude makes quick work of his clothing, stripped bare and kneeling in seconds. He surveys the oils available, grinning in delightful surprise at the return of a sweetly smelling substance. He doesn’t plan on having Byleth rim him, though he can’t say he hasn’t prepared for the occasion. A wet finger circles his puckering hole, slipping in a knuckle.

            Claude sighs as he works his fingers in, internally grateful for Byleth not checking in on him taking a mysteriously long time in the bathroom this morning. She most likely figured it out, knowing her, but he likes to think that he still has some element of surprise. It’s relatively easy to press two fingers into his entrance, scissoring them slowly, moaning as he pushes them deeper into himself.

            “Okay, okay.” He murmurs, slipping them out and wiping them against his thigh. He doesn’t want to get too excited prior to Byleth’s arrival, and he has a sinking feeling that this rope work is going to take longer than planned. Recalling Leonie’s careful movements from the week prior, Claude swallows, grasping the rope and pulling it taut against his hip.

            It’s a slow process of looping and knotting and tugging. His hands make quick word of the beginning layout, just a series of ties along his hips that end up looking surprisingly intricate when pulled taut. He makes the same movement on the other side, humming pleasantly when he sees that it’s the exact same movement. It comes out the slightest bit messier. The loops after that become increasingly complex, ropes crossing once, twice, across his chest, and then wider at his back. Claude’s never found himself so in need of a mirror, and he hisses when he pulls the rope just the slightest too far, causing one string of rope of chafe along his side.

            The doorknob jostles and he yelps. The ropes slide out of his fingers onto the floor and he grapples with his discarded robe, though it’s too little, too late. Byleth stands in the doorway, a crooked smile on her face.

            “Is seeing you as a present going to be a reoccurring theme?”  Her voice is a purr, eyes lidded as she takes measured steps into the room. Claude swallows, feeling nervous sweat threaten to break free across his skin.

            “Teach,” and oh, his voice warbles against his own ear, “I didn’t, uh, I wasn’t expecting you.” Not so early, at the least. That much is clear from her raised eyebrow, surveying the haphazardly toppled vial of oil, the ropes still undone around his chest. He shrugs, feeling nerves pinch at his lips.

            “Well, I couldn’t leave my very favorite student alone, now could I?” Byleth taunts. Her steps make quick work of the distance to the center, hands grasping hard at the ropes and earning her a grunt. Claude winces, his eye twitching, as she places her boot against his thigh, pulling rope taut and tight against his skin. The red rope burns so nicely, and he hisses, tongue poking from his mouth.

            “Pay attention, little deer.” Byleth is remarkably better at this than he, so much so that he flushes when she undoes two hasty knots to twist the rope tighter, harsher, against his skin. The rope leaves lines of bruises along his stomach to his chest, looping under, around, his nipples and chafing just slightly when she pulls the rope around his underarm. Her hands make seamless movements from one strand of rope to another, tugging, tying, and Claude finds himself stunned to see a pattern of diamonds and flowers unfold across his body.

            “Huh. You’re a lot better at this than I figured.” Not that Claude ever doubted Byleth’s knotting skills, especially not with their past excursions. But the intricacies with which she ties are a new field altogether, especially so when she grapples his arms tight behind him, looping and fixing the rope in an imitation of vines cascading downward.

            “Who do you think gave Leonie the idea in the first place?” Byleth’s scoff is warm against his ear, her breasts pressing into his back, and Claude swallows. The feel of the rope between his fingers is odd, warm from her hands, and he feels very suddenly as though he’s been thoroughly embraced by Byleth’s own creation. She taps his thighs apart with her fingers, and when her fingers meet his twitching hole, he moans.

            “S-so that was you? I knew it.” He did not. Byleth grasps the fallen oil and uncorks it, coating her fingers thoroughly before roughing thrusting them into him. Claude gasps, back rearing against the binds of the rope, feeling them tug at his skin. Oh, how tight they are, forcing him to crane his neck to properly survey her grin, fingers waxing sweet sounds from his mouth. “How, nng, how cruel!”

            “As though you don’t prefer it.” Her fingers punctuate her point, three fingers crooking and pumping dangerously within in, oil soaked into his skin. When she presses hard, he gasps, eyes flown open at the sharp pleasure. She’s found his prostrate, clearly, and takes full advantage to fuck him relentlessly at the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Look at you—what king would be so good at taking his wife’s fingers? So needy,” she grasps at his thighs, pulling him close, and he shouts with the dizzy flush of heat traveling upward, “so greedy.”

            “Byleth, Byleth, hhnn, I,” his mind spins, dick bobbing eagerly over his stomach. His legs shake around her, need just about boiling, when her hands leave him at once, letting him fall against the tile floor. He whines, pants, and then gasps sharp when pain forces him to crane his neck downward again. Byleth grins from her place on the floor, a strand of red rope cutting at the base of his dick.

            “Wouldn’t want my present to come undone so soon.” He whines, feeling tears threatening at his eyes, even more so when she presses his thighs open with two more taut bands of rope. It is only a matter of time before she’s got symmetrical patterns down his leg, eerily reminiscent of the tights she once adorned so often. Humming to herself at her work, Byleth finally stands, dusting off her robes to survey the tables at hand.

            “B-Byleth? Hold on, you’re not going to leave me like this, are you?” Claude could swear his heart thumps upward to his throat, loud in his head. Byleth is quiet as she ghosts her hands along the table, and Claude grunts, sorely wishing for a moment to be able to use his hands again. He feels terribly out of place and disoriented, awkward against the floor, and the reminder that he is simply at her mercy makes him shiver.

            “I should,” Byleth sighs, “you’re lucky I’m so kind.” The dildo she’s picked out looks anything but, oversized and exaggerated with various veins cut into the material. Claude swallows, his legs twitching in their binds, causing a sequence of tightening that makes him moan. Byleth’s grin is all teeth as she squats. “Control yourself.”

            The press of the dildo against him earns her a startled groan, his face well flushed and wet from beading sweat. It fills him so deliciously, and he quivers with a whine when she flicks a finger at his clenching thighs. He’s so tight, pulled so taut, the veins hitting every nerve within him until it presses at his prostrate, a shout forced through his mouth. Byleth pauses, her eyes alight, and it is the sheer power sparkling in her eyes that makes Claude whimper. He’d ask for mercy if he wanted any.

            He doesn’t. Not from Byleth.

            “B-Byleth, please, haah, hah,” he shakes with every push of the dildo, and every quiver simply pulls the rope harsher against his skin. He feels red and black and blue, a rainbow of forming bruises, and the thought of his skin marked so obviously makes him drool.

            “Please what?” She twists the dildo against his prostrate, cruel, awful, and he sobs at the pleasure.

            “Please! Please fuck me!” Byleth loves to hear him beg and Claude finds he’s only too happy to do so. He pants, trying to thrust his hips upward, though the ropes cutting into his skin only result in him squirming upward at an awkward angle. Byleth laughs, a musical tinkle in the air, and then she’s slapping at his thighs, nails digging into his skin.

            “Control. Yourself.” The warning makes him shake, tears threatening at his eyes. The final meters of rope are used in a series of intricate knots that he would appreciate as absolute stunning, he’s sure, if they weren’t being used to press at his hole upwards. Claude squeezes his eyes shut, every rise and fall of his chest tight against the rope, and it isn’t until Byleth’s fingers tip him to the side that he opens them again.

            “Oh. Oh, wow.” The air that leaves him is as much pleasured as it is awed—Byleth’s time as a mercenary truly has make her knotting skills unparalled. He gives a light attempt to twist his arm, hissing at the feeling of the entire body of rope traveling with him, pushing at the dildo, cutting along his dick, pressing along his chest. Byleth’s transformed him into a piece of art, not to be touched.

            “Can you move?” Byleth’s whisper is a murmur at his ear, her arms looping around him to pull him flush. Her breasts press against him, her chin brushing his shoulder. Ah. She’s lost her shirt, clearly, at some point while he’s been admiring her handiwork.

            “Nope.” The word pops off his tongue and he grins upward at her, craning his neck to peck at her lips. His head is the only part he really can move right now, and Claude busies himself in kissing at Byleth’s jaw, along her neck. She huffs, amusement, hands skating up his sides.

            “Are you sure?” His jaw slackens for a taunt when her fingers curl at his underarms and he squeaks, instead. Confusion, irritation, flash at his eyes as Byleth looms over, her mouth set into that same smug smile she always adorned when she knows she’s about to pull holes into his schemes, bind him down, and have her fun.

            “Byleth? Byleth, wha—wait, no, h-hold on!” Claude squirms, bucking with a sudden laugh as her fingers take no mercy in suddenly tickling at his ribs. His eyes squeeze shut, thrown by the sudden sensation, when a flash of pain forces him to gasp and moan. Every squirm of his torso against her fingers is accompanied by the tight tug of the ropes, knot forcing the dildo to bounce against his prostrate, and he whines, loud, desperate.

            “D-don’t! Aha, hah, n-no, no, no—ah!” Claude shrieks. Byleth’s nails make every poke and prod at his body unbearably sensitive, and for a moment, he feels utterly nude, stripped bare, embarrassment welling within him at being tormented in such a childish manner. His hands squeeze and clench, the ropes taut, and he sobs.

            “Don’t what? Don’t do this?” Every word Byleth speaks vibrates along his ear, warm, sensitive, ticklish, and Claude laughs, sore, hoarse, every gasping chuckle wrenched from his throat. He can’t take this, helpless at her hands, pathetic attempts at escape only pulling the rope impossibly tight, chafing, forcing him to moan and laugh and cry, tears finally breaking free to trickle down his face. Her tongue laps at his cheek, and when even that seems to tickle, he sobs.

            “Please! Teach! Stop, stop, no more,” Claude whines, voice warbling. His stomach hurts, cramping, and when her hand splays on it, nails curling, his head ducks into her shoulder, body trembling. The dildo relentless pushes within him with every tremble and laugh, thrust impossibly deep, and her hand against his stomach makes him feel paper thin, fragile, easy for her fingers.

            Then he’s sprawled against the floor, panting, sniffling, Byleth’s arm pressed against his back.

            “Fine. If you can’t handle punishment as a child,” her hand pinches at his balls and he moans, lingering giggles gone, “then I’ll just have to punish you as an adult.”

            Claude has hardly a moment to breathe when sharp pain spikes up his spine, a gasp pried from his mouth. Byleth’s second spank is considerably harsher than her first, and his toes curl as he thrusts against the floor, ass pert in the air.

            “A-ah! Byleth! Ha-ah, hah,” Claude groans. Her hand comes down again, hitting him at right at the knot above his anus, making his back pull taut, the rope cutting into his skin. His eyes flutter, pleasure overwhelming, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to cum just like that.

            “Mo-re! Nng, hah!” The hand pinching at his dick says otherwise. Claude sobs, body unbearably tense, as the next two spanks come down fast against the top of his ass. His body shoots forward, natural instinct to tense forcing the rope to chafe at his skin, digging into his sides, his nipples. He’s worn bare, made oversensitive by the tickling, and his mind swims as she pinches at his pinking skin.

            “Brats,” Byleth hisses, “don’t get to say anything.” Her hand comes down once, twice, thrice at the flesh of his ass, and when her fingers hook into the rope to snap it down, Claude’s eyes wrench shut, pants and whimpers a stream of noise.

            “Please,” Claude yelps, high, needy, as Byleth presses her hands at the angry skin, reddening under her touch, “please! Please, please, please.”

            “Please what?” Byleth grasps at his hips, pulling him high against her face, teeth sinking into the red flesh. Claude screams, tight, overwhelming, and if not for the rope forcing him still he is certain that he may have kicked out on reflex alone. Her hands pinch at the ropes, forcing them the slightest apart, licking and kissing at his skin as he shakes.

            “Please touch me. Please, please.” Is he mumbling, or whispering, or whining? The room feels warm, too warm, every shiver a chain of tightening and teasing and touching that makes him shiver again, endless overwhelming cycle. Claude’s eyes flutter, blurry, as Byleth lets him slip back against the cold tile. Like this, he can make out the multitude of hooks on the ceiling. Right.

            Byleth could string him up on there, an art piece just for her to enjoy. To play with, to kiss at, to fuck and leave wet and hard and needy. Just a display for her pleasure.

            Here, sprawled on the floor, her fingers scratching at his chest and pulling his legs around her own, Claude figures he makes a pretty good piece of art.

            “Needy,” Byleth appraises, though the press of her wet cunt at the head of his cock is telling enough that she’s been holding back. Her thighs twitch against his as she sinks onto him, both their heads thrown back into a groan. The room is spinning, dissolving, hazy against the tears making his eyes glossy. Byleth kisses at his cheek, a gentle press of her lips, before her hips press upward.

            They fall back down, engulfing Claude into her wet warmth, and he shouts.

            “Please, oh, goddess, fuck, fuck.” The sound of the room is nothing but his slurred moans and her grunts, wet noises echoing every snap of her hips against his. Her fingers pull at the ropes, scratch at his skin, pinch at his nipples, every touch preceding a wanton moan, whine, cry. He wants to cum, wants to spill into her, around her, built up and up and up and overwhelmed at the pressure closing in on every centimeter of his body.

            It’s Byleth’s hands snaking at his ass, one pressing at the knot against the dildo, the other pinching at the beginnings of welts against his skin from the spanking and ropes alike, that send him overboard. Claude’s scream is drowned against her mouth, whimpering, sobbing, as he squirts cum into her puss, her fingers twisting cruelly while milking him. She continues to rock against his body, chasing her own high, even as overstimulation makes every movement overwhelming. Byleth freezes against him, thighs tight, hands grasping at his back when she orgasms.

            The sight of his cum dripping from her puss makes him groan, eyes lidded. Byleth pants, though her mouth is pressed into a warm smile, and the kiss she rewards him is remarkably sweeter than any of the debauchery they just indulged in. Claude surrenders to her lips, gentle, yielding, allowing her to press him flat against the ground.

            “Good?” Claude scoffs, a brow raised at the question. As though there’s any other answer, when he’s no doubt going to have rope burn for the next week reminding him of this. Byleth huffs her own laughter, hands trailing down his body to poke at the knots.

            “Come on. I don’t want to carry you all the way home.” Her hands make quick work of the rope, even faster than when putting him together, and Claude sags with visible relief when the one around his dick slips loose. Byleth grins at that, finger pinching at his head, before continuing to unwind the red ropes. It’s almost a shame to see her work come undone, as beautiful and intricate as the knots were, though the ability to actually move his fingers without pain is a right Claude will never take for granted again.

            “I don’t see how untying me has anything to do with carrying me.” Claude teases. Byleth smacks at his arm, now free to make a barebones attempt to protect himself. It doesn’t quite work, muscles screaming at him, red marks apparent where rope once was.

            “Don’t make me leave you here.” Byleth wouldn’t, a privilege Claude feels he’s quite capable of exploiting. He lies against the cold tile, feeling his breathing even, as she finally finishes unwinding the rope, dumping it into a pile on the floor. He’s almost dozed off when her hands grapple with his body, hauling him upward.

            Byleth does, in fact, carry him back. It’s his special right as king, after all.

            That, and the gentle press of her lips against his forehead, right as his mind drifts into sleep. She really does spoil him so.