Work Header

Kinktober 2019

Chapter Text

            Whispered rumors amongst nobles point to a hidden abandonment along street corners, where prostitutes and nobles alike can shed themselves of their skin, adorning beautiful masks and pretty robes tied up, bare genitals exposed to all who wish to see them. It is a store, a massive monument of a place, with three stacked floors of late night pleasures, and tucked inside it sits a hall of rooms available for rent, keys passed along only those with enough secrecy, and enough cash.

            The smell of sex lingers in the air, coating every exposure of skin that drifts into the hotel. Years ago, it would be a bare whimper of a palace, hidden under shadows and shade and ruled by the heavy fist of money.

            Now, it’s doors are open to an anonymous crowd of wandering citizens. They may be commoners, or former slaves, or noblemen and gentlewomen—all hide in bedazzled masks tied behind with glossy ribbon, and sleek robes that dust the floor as they explore. Hidden amongst the crowd is a man in a blue tinted robe with gold lace trim, golden flowers carefully tied along the hood as thought a wreath. He comes in a different robe every time, clearly a man with money, though his mask stays ever the same—a golden deer mask, the edges shaped into horns, green rhinestones dotting the yellow sparkly trim.

            “I can’t believe Hilda stole my keys. Hope Igantz gets the fucking of his life.” A laugh is startled out of the deer at his companion’s words, a man dressed in black with red crystals dotting a mesh overlay. His mask covers just half his face, a lacy black mask with a pointed nose and a matte red ribbon finish. His hood is down, revealing his messy red hair, and he frowns as he leads his companion deeper into the hall.

            “Don’t be like that. You should have known Hilda wanted them from the beginning.” Sylvain snorts at the words, rolling his eyes behind the mask. Claude’s words ring true, perceptive as always, though the meaning fails a little when they’re sneaking around an equivalent to a brothel looking for rooms to fuck in.

            A king and a knight, looking for rope and ties to bind themselves for their lovers. Sometimes, Claude wonders how his world has evolved into such hilarious madness.

            “I still hope Ignatz gets the fucking of his life,” Sylvain corrects, earning another crooked smile from Claude. He points them down another corner, leading Claude down a hallway filled with elaborate doors of various colors, all rounded at the top with a grassy gold pattern filling the stained glass. They wouldn’t look out of place in a church, and Claude has to bite his tongue on the comment when he notices the distant sound of nearing footsteps.

            “You really know this place, huh?” The words come out needling, only slightly intentional, and Sylvain huffs a smug chuckle. He drums his fist against his chest twice, chin up, before knocking on a green-tinted door with budding flowers drawn on it. Two seconds of silence later, he twists the knob and swings the door open, gliding inside.

            “Of course I do. Oh, Claude, imagine the sweet things you could have gotten up to in here.” Claude doesn’t really need to imagine it—the room is perfectly spread out with a variety of toys and lubricant, herbs and teas gracefully displayed on a rack. In the middle of the room is a table with cuffs on it; Sylvain pries one open to showcase the leather lining on the inside. Maximized for comfort.

            “I’m assuming you used this room before?” A likely story, based off the grandiose wave of Sylvain’s arms. He chuckles, running a hand along the table, and though the mask covers the top half of his lace so thoroughly Claude can tell the familiar muscle twitches of an eyebrow waggle.

            “Obviously. Some of the best toys are in here.” Despite his words, Sylvain is already on the way out, Claude following him after gently closing the door shut behind him. They walk down two more doors, the door glass changing colors from green to orange, and Sylvain knocks again on a door the color of flames, warped wyverns meeting each other in the centerpiece. Claude has a feeling he’s going to like this room.

            “Ladies first,” Sylvain prods. Claude rolls his eyes, making a mocking bow before stepping in.

            The room is much barer, and much smaller, than the room before. In fact, the main attraction seems to be nothing more than a padded hole in the wall, oblong and lined with leather. The sides of the room are lined with a similar variety of sexual accessories as the room before—lubricant, dildos, whips and rope all made a repeat appearance, as well as a more crowded tray of teas and herbs.

            “Is this it?” Claude teases, waving at the hole in the wall. Sylvain is quiet for a moment, shoulders rising, before his voice comes out in an awed whisper.

            “Hold on, don’t tell me… you don’t know what this is?” Irritation would sting at Claude if not for the fact that Sylvain is, one, a trusted friend, and two, an unbelievably kinky piece of shit. For every unquestionable blasphemous suggestion and thought that has crossed Claude’s mind, he knows that Byleth is at least two steps ahead, and Sylvain’s mind is likely as busy as a crowded trading harbor, filled with so-called sexual deviants. The temptation to tease Sylvain for it pokes at Claude, but curiosity overrides it.

            “Nope,” he responds, popping the p. Claude takes a step closer, eying the hole as though it will teach him anything. He can clearly see through it, but the other room simply looks the same as the one he’s standing in. For a voyeur setup, this hole is awfully awkward and obvious.

            Sylvain must catch onto his thoughts, as he’s quick to chuckle and smack the wall with a wide grin. The barest of pink graces his cheeks, an undeniable warning to Claude that he’s about to hear some very unnecessary indulgence. Not that he can speak, what with how often he himself indulges in pleasure.

            “It’s call hole-in-wall. That side,” his hand pokes through the hole to wave at the other room, “is where someone comes in and gets themselves all ready. Then they come over here,” his hand smacks the leather twice, “and stick their ass through it. Finally, some lucky lady—or mister—comes through here,” a wave in the space they’re occupying, “to enjoy.”

            Claude’s brows furrow at the words, deciphering the sequence. The hole doesn’t look like it would comfortably fit a person, though, then again, he hadn’t noticed yet the panel of leather padding below the hole. Ample space for someone to dangle their legs through, if necessary. His eyes draw from the hole to Sylvain, looking remarkably pleased with himself.

            “Any lady?” Claude asks, careful to keep his tone level. It doesn’t matter with Sylvain, a lecherous grin spreading on his face, his arm returning to smack at the wall.

            “Any lady, stranger if you want, or a certain, special someone if you want.” His words drag along “special someone” and Claude muffles his snort, crossing his arms behind his head. Sylvain nods, poking his hand through the hole again.

            “Best if you come to prepare first. It’s a little tricky your first time, but believe me, well worth the trouble.” His whole head tilts with the attempt to wink through his mask, and this time Claude cannot help the chuckle slipping through. Sylvain retracts his arm, though still staring at the hole, before stepping back to exit the room.

            “Now, come on, we don’t have time to waste! There’s more to explore.” A nagging voice suspiciously similar to Seteth protests Claude spending his afternoon visiting every nook and cranny of a sex hotel, and yet with Sylvain enthusiastically launching into exaggerated retellings and advice, he finds himself unable to focus. The bulk of the political work had never been his doing, much more up Byleth’s patient alley, and Claude was more than happy to massage her tired shoulders after a long day.

            He’s looking forward to seeing her tonight, even as his eyes glance back to the wyvern print door. Claude has a particular feeling he’s going to be making a visit back here soon enough.


            Claude’s fingers are red and bloody with how harshly he’s bitten down on them, trying desperately to muffle the endless mewls and moans forcibly pulled from his throat as Byleth hums, sucking on his greedy hole, twitching with every movement. He needs to be quiet, has to, knowing that they’re only two floors down and a wall of stone from a lingering group of ambassadors who clearly could not take a hint that they were not wanted. Blind fools sent from nobles far away, deeming the journey too much effort to come meet the new king and queen.

            Claude wants to kick them out of the halls, if only so Byleth could properly pull him down and fuck him.

            “B-Byleth… hah, nn, Byl—n,” Claude whines, unable to cover his mouth fast enough as another shiver wracks his body. Byleth purrs, her tongue relentless as it presses flat against him, her mouth pressing kisses and bites along his rim. His face must be entirely red, flushed deep, heat prickling under every centimeter of skin. She presses his trousers slightly lower, tucking them under her chin, to better angle her tongue to crook within him, making him give a shaky croak.

            His legs tremble against her head, truly unable to keep him standing with every dizzying warm breath and wetness of her tongue licking stripes up his ass. Claude swallows his groan, drool seeping past his clenched jaw to pool in his hand, sticky. He’s tempted, so horribly tempted, to just touch his weeping dick, jerk himself off, something, anything, to free from him the nearly unbearable heat vibrating along his body.

            Byleth bites his rim and pulls, releasing just to slither her tongue a centimeter further in, and Claude feels his entire body shake.

            “Ple-ase,” by gods, his voice is unstable, loose, as shaky as his back resting on the wall, “Please, Byleth, nn, please, please, please, please!

            Byleth’s hum ripples through Claude, more effective than any poison, any dagger, digging so ruthlessly into his core that legs truly feel like jelly and he tips forward, hand curling in Byleth’s hand, a desperate attempt to steady himself. She grasps at his thighs, nails digging in, undoubtly leaving fresh red crescents in her wake. He heaves, every breath swirling out of him as quickly as he enters, tears making his vision blurry.

            He shouts when he cums, unable to quiet the desperate warble in his voice, eyes pinching shut as tears slip onto his cheek. His hands shake, blood smeared along well bitten fingers, sobbing in place as Byleth continues licking at his hole, kissing and mouthing at the delicate rim. It’s too much, every movement shattering what little strength he has left, and his back bows with the force of his orgasm.

            “Ha-ah, ahh, nn, By… Byleth,” Claude wheezes, sobs, weak fingers curling along Byleth’s hair. She finally, finally, pulls away, a line of spit dropping from his quivering rectum to his pants, stained by his cum. She’s grinning, smug, a smile all teeth as she presses him against the wall, eying his crying form.

            “What happened to being quiet?” She’s teasing, he knows that, but the comment still flushes him red. Claude averts his eyes, knowing his eyes are pink to the tips, placing his shaking fingers onto the wall to steady himself. Byleth stands, smoothing down her cloak, looking remarkably refreshed and regal for a woman who just rimmed the life out of her husband. It’s part of her charm.

            And, well, Claude is very, very charmed.

            “I tried,” he responds, and it comes out a breathless whine. A pout tugs at his mouth, embarrassment and irritation at his insistent neediness, even knowing it only adds to Byleth’s amusement. She finds herself fond at times like these, heat cooling, when Claude’s eyes are red-rimmed and desperate, cheeks lovingly flushed and wet. Her hand comes to interlock with his fingers, humming, and she pulls him straight.

            “I know,” she murmurs against his cheek. He sighs, burying his face into the crook of her shoulder, breaths steadying. His legs continue to tremble so, cum and spit making his thighs sticky, and she swallows down the temptation to lower her lips to him again. Tempting as the thought is, she’s already pushed their luck by pulling him into a side passage for what was supposed to be a quickie.

            Never say that she doesn’t empathize with Seteth—dealing with royalty is a pain.

            “Can I--,” his eyes dart down to the skirt of her attire, clearly interested on continuing. She chuckles, running fingers through his hair.

            “Don’t worry. You can pay me back later,” Byleth promises, warm. She knows that she’s wet under her layers, sticky from drawing out relentless groans and gasps from Claude, the sight of his teary eyes the greatest turn on she can imagine. That being said, they have kept those ambassadors waiting an awfully long time, and they should really get back.

            As though hearing her thoughts, Claude places a pretty pout on his lips, red and gnawed from his desperate attempts to keep his voice down. Byleth can’t resist pecking them just so, her endearing little king.

            “Come on,” she relents, tapping his ass with a grin, “we have work to do.”

            Work ends up being four hours of “discussions,” which is just a nicer way to say talking to brick walls. By the time even Seteth is impatient enough to usher out the ambassadors, simply imploring that it may be best for all parties to take a rest for the night, Claude is two steps away from blissful sleep, eyes drooping as his head nods. He’s quite certain Seteth is upset with his performance, undoubtedly gearing himself up for some speech, so he’s pleasantly surprised when it’s Byleth who returns to the council room, eyebrow quirked.

            “Finally awake?” She asks, her heels a pretty tap against the floor. Claude snorts—as though he hadn’t spent the better part of four hours alarmingly alert for a man who’s been well and truly tongue-fucked. It’s a rarity that they indulge in having her rim him to completion, but clearly something had taken her into a mood. It’s the perfect environment for the idea prickling in the hind of Claude’s mind, and he gestures to her.

            “Oh, my fair lady,” she sneers, the flash of her teeth drawing shivers from Claude, “how I adore you so. Tell me—would you like to venture out to the far and dangerous world?” Byleth’s face blanks, pondering. Claude can almost glimpse at the far recesses of her mind, surely calculating the probabilities of them being able to do much after eating Claude out.

            He’s about to rescind the offer when she smiles, drawing in close to place her fingers on Claude’s chin. He swallows as she tips him up, leaning down, her hand sliding to grasp at his throat. When her thumb presses against his apple, he moans.

            “Four days. After all these fools are gone,” she squeezes him, just barely, before lowering herself to kiss at his mouth. Claude whimpers, fingers tightening their hold on the desk before him, feeling familiar heat spark within. When he pulls away, he can’t stop the soft whine slipping from his mouth.

            “Sure,” he pants, mind whirring, “four days.”


            Four days feels like four eternities before Claude manages to escape from the meeting room. One of the ambassadors apparently decided that they “weren’t agreeable” enough and contacted his noble, who then tried to chew Claude and Byleth out for being stubborn highnesses. The irony, of course, being that said noble refused to budge on any and all his policies.

            Claude blows the hair out of his face, resisting the urge to grind his teeth. He doesn’t have time to reminisce on tired old men.

             True to his word, Sylvain had acquired Claude a key that he had delivered personally, in a crisp yellowed envelope with, surprisingly, the Fraldarius crest neatly stamped in wax. Sylvain had rushed out of the room before Claude could properly question him about the origin about the envelope, and, more importantly, whether or not Felix was going to kill him at some point. At the very least, Byleth wasn’t the least bit suspicious after seeing it was a letter from Felix, likely trusting him.

            Claude could laugh. None of their friends are trust-worthy, himself least of all.

            Surely, Byleth thinks the same, at least after today’s performance. Claude had adorned himself in his kingly best, glittering gold jewels and luxurious fabrics that hugged him perfectly with every step. He had pressed his hand against the small of her back during discussions, leaning in with avid eyes, only to slant and lick at his lips turnt to her. When she glared, pinching his thighs, he had moaned into her ear, turning back to the ambassadors with shrugging laugh. Her fingers had dipped in and pinched the flesh of his ass when he was in the middle of conversation, and when he gasped, out, heavy, it was her who withdrew, hands curling, heart thrumming.

            Claude had winked at her on his way out, twisting his hips knowingly.

            He hums under his breath now, approaching familiar orange stained doors. He had been careful to swap out his clothing to something remarkably more muted—a simple black trouser and a gold trimmed navy cape that dusted the floor. It offered him a long hood to block any wandering eyes, though he doubted the owners of this particular establishment looked too closely.

            Sylvain had actually delivered him two keys, one dipped in silver, the other gold. Claude inserts the gold one into the door, swinging it open to reveal a room he had yet to step into. The hole in the wall is there, inviting, allowing in an easy look into the closed doors on the other side, right where Byleth’s key is meant to go.

            He doesn’t have too much time, knowing her. The ambassadors should keep her busy a while longer, Seteth even more so, but the last that he teased her so, she had stormed after him and had him over her knees in a matter of minutes. They had barely slept that night, her hips relentlessly slamming against his, squeezing pleasured screams from his throat until hoarse.

            He didn’t regret it then, and shimmying off his pants now, Claude doubts this won’t be an experience worth remembering. He slips the key onto the table, looking along the variety of toys available. They had fucked last night, much slower, gentle, just to feel each other’s warm in the night, tired from nearly a week’s worth of conversation. It was an awful shame that these council meetings had to be held the same week as Sylvain’s visit, also coinciding with Bernadetta and Lorenz’s visits. Claude had confessed against her nape that he was awfully tired of noble duties, and when she had purred that they could find something more fun to do, his mind had gone blank but for the glinting keys hidden behind in his drawer.

            Claude palms his dick with one hand, the other reaching to grasp a bottle of oil. There is a line of them, small vials up against a rack, one half used. The one he tips over onto his fingers is a smooth texture, clearly not cheap, and his mouth quirks in amusement when he registers a scent coming off the oil. Sweet, and he licks at it. It doesn’t quite taste like anything bad, just a hint of sugar folded, like the lightest syrup.

            The thought of Byleth encountering his sweetly smelling ass pulls a full grin out of Claude, and he squats to the floor as he pours more oil onto his fingers. The temptation of having Byleth roughly finger and wrangle him nips at him, but Sylvain’s warnings ring in his mind. First time firsts, there’s always time for more.

            “Ugh.” Claude grunts as his finger pushes into him, slowly curling it to stretch out his entrance. It hadn’t been long since Byleth played with his ass last, and the oil makes quick work of letting him slip his other finger in. When he stretches them, scissoring out, it burns just the slightest. Claude hisses between his teeth, heart beating, the thought of Byleth stumbling in while still in mid-preparation and taking him roughly regardless baring heat in his stomach.

            He pants when he manages to crook a third finger just barely past his rim. It burns him well, and he slicks his hand up with more oil before trying again. He’s nearly emptied half the vial before he can finally get past the second knuckle of his fingers, gasping, dick fully hard now as it slaps against his stomach. Claude’s certain that his cheeks are flushed from ear to ear, as he pants as he slips his fingers out, admiring the sticky feeling of the oil against his skin.

            The wall is—more difficult to approach. It’s still an odd contraption, something Claude isn’t sure he fully, well, understands. As many tales as Sylvain can spin about the glory of “hole-in-wall,” it’s a little more awkward to stick his leg through, staring at the door on Byleth’s side, and then hopping on his other leg to angle himself better. Claude nearly slips on the oiled floor, yelping, though he manages to grip hard on the leather to catch himself.

            “Seriously?” Claude chuckles, feeling more than a little strange with his hips on the other side. There’s just enough room for him to slip his arm through to grapple with the band of his pants, pulling them upwards just enough to cover his hole. The oil dripping off his ass smears on the fabric and he groans, just knowing that their cleaners will have words for him.

            They’re nicer than the tailors, at the very least. Though, knowing Byleth, she’d tear right through his clothes with the mood he left her in.

            Claude hums, shifting in place, trying to find a proper balance. His legs don’t actually touch the floor on the other side, making it apparent that either the floor levels on either side of the wall aren’t equal or… that his legs aren’t long enough. He was never the shortest person in the room, the title going to Lysithea, or Cyril, but he certainly wasn’t the tallest either. Claude grunts, kicking out, finding himself wishing for just a few centimeters more in a time like this, just enough to steady himself on the floor.

            His legs freeze when the sound of a creak reaches his ears.

            “Claude, is this a jok—” Byleth’s voice cuts, before the door is hastily shut behind her. She takes in a breath, and Claude can’t help laughing at the noise.

            “Hey, Byleth,” sung, as though he’s not lubed up and ready, “funny bumping into you here. I’m, uh, in a hole in the wall.” His legs kick out in display, swinging his hips from side to side. It’s actually a decent core exercise, and he strains his abs to properly lift his ass pleasingly. “Little help?”

            Byleth snorts, steps remarkably lighter. Across the wall, leather padding in place, Claude finds her voice remarkably more muffled, distant. His shoulders draw up, careful, suddenly very aware of how much access she has to him, how little he has to her. The realization makes his dick jump.

            “It’s called stuck in wall.” Claude would nod if she could see him. Instead, he yelps, arms flying forward but grasping onto absolutely nothing from the sudden searing pain on his left cheek. His head turns, trying to catch her eye, only to see grey matter.

            “Byleth, honey, don’t be mean.” It’s a little harder to taunt when she can’t see his face, but Claude delivers his very best attitude in speech. She responds by smacking his other cheek just as hard, drawing a tight moan from him.

            “Mean? You don’t think teasing me all day and then ditching me to a room of geezers isn’t mean?” Her words are punctuated with three heavy spanks in succession, sparking pants and whimpers from Claude’s mouth. Her hands always seem to plant the best pleasure into him, delivering perfect spikes of pain against his ass.

            “Besides,” and oh, how well he can hear the sounds, heavy, hard, delivering smack after smack on his sensitive backside, “don’t you like it when I’m mean?”

            “W-well, hah, I, mnn,” Claude whines, unable to stop his hips from squirming in place. It’s hard, really fucking hard, to focus on anything when he can’t quite move, the appeal beginning to dawn onto him. His legs make a poor attempt to flail out, caught off balance, and Byleth spanks the sensitive skin between ass and thigh as he does. Claude yelps, panting, pinching his eyes shut.

            Byleth pulls at the waist of his trousers, finally, dragging them downward and exposing him to the cold air. She’s undoubtedly preparing to deliver another succession of spanks against his likely pink ass when she freezes. Claude waits, swallowing down air, eyes pinched, until he registers that she’s yet to move.

            “Uh, Byleth?” He calls, feeling remarkably exposed in the silence. She’s there, clearly, hand still on his pants, but the spanking has stilled. Claude angles himself upward, really pushing his abs for a moment, trying to peer into the hole behind him. “Byleth, you there? Taken over by the goddess or something?”

            He gets two heavy spanks in response, one for each cheek, and Claude shouts, dropping his arms back down. His teeth grind together as Byleth’s hand pulls and pinches at his reddening skin, before slapping the tops of his thighs. Claude moans, legs straining, finding no purchase or relief in the space around him. He can’t fucking reach anything like this.

            “Why,” Byleth’s voice is incredulous, “does your ass smell like cake?”

            Claude stills, gaping for a moment before memory catches up, and then he’s laughing, head bowed as pink flushes his cheeks. Of course—he should have expected as much. Byleth’s still pinching at his ass, perhaps inspecting it, while he coughs and tries to steady his chuckles into actual words.

            “Well, the oil—Byleth!” Clearly, his wife has absolutely no regard for basic safety, because she’s licking a stripe up his ass, questionable smell be damned. Claude grunts, biting down on his lip, as she pulls his ass open for better access, blowing on his hole. He’s twitching, he just knows it, and the shame makes his mouth water.

            “It doesn’t taste like much,” is all Byleth has to say before she’s dragging her tongue along his hole. Claude gasps, swallowing down his moan, unable to do much but wriggle in place. His muscles are beginning to tire from the effort of holding himself up, and he lets his shoulders droop, still unable to properly reach the floor even as he straightens out his fingers and push.

            “B-Byleth, hah, come on,” Claude whines, pushing back against her tongue. He really had failed to consider the outcome of laying himself out like this, patient, willing, just a greedy hole for hers to take. Her hand smacks at his ass again, making it shake as he groans, her tongue still relentlessly fucking into him. His dick is wet with precum, and he imagines that if Byleth reaches around to grab at it, he’d cum just then and there.

            It’s still early in the night, far too early for how much he’s antagonized her this day, and Claude just knows that he won’t be getting relief so early. The thought only makes him warmer, dick bobbing with every lick.

            “Come on now, Claude,” Byleth’s voice is a whisper, just a bare vibration lingering over the heavy haze beginning to build in Claude’s head, “shouldn’t you have thought about this before placing yourself out like this? I mean,” Her hands pinch into his skin, dragging his thighs apart, and he gasps as wet spittle hits his cheeks, “anyone could have walked in here.”

            “Anyone could see you, their king, like this,” her thumb digs into his hole, spreading it, and Claude shouts when two fingers roughly push into him, “such a greedy slut, for anyone to take.”

            Claude whines, nodding, knowing that she can’t see him, knowing that she wouldn’t care. Her fingers scissor cruelly in, out, waxing mewls and whimpers from his lips as he tries to find some purchase in the air, only to be stuck with nothing but the feeling of leather around his waist, the sensations of Byleth curling her fingers within him. He groans, feeling his entire body shiver, when she licks at him above her fingers.

            “Nothing more than this fucking hole.” Byleth crooks her fingers, hard, pressing against his delicious bundle of nerves and Claude croaks, feeling tears begin to well up. It’s too much, sensations dizzying warm, just his body suspended with nothing to hold onto but the insistent press of Byleth in him, over and over again. His fingers press against each other, tight, nails digging in, just so he can feel something, anything, on this side of the wall. Byleth shoves her third finger in, the sticky smear of oil across his ass.

            “H-hah, Byleth, p, please!” Claude’s legs could kick out, perhaps, if he could muster some strength in him. It’s all disappeared along with his mind, nothing more than a warm puddle of filth, wanting nothing but Byleth in him, taking him well and truly helpless.

            “Please, what?” Byleth spits, and when she hits his prostrate again he sobs. The tears are truly brimming now, beginning to slide down his cheek and hitting the floor, surely, though he finds that he can’t focus enough on where they go. She doesn’t relent, crooking and arching and scissoring her fingers to hit the bundle of nerves over and over again, and Claude can barely form a thought, much less enough words to articulate his point.

            “Please,” he babbles, conscious only of heat and warmth and Byleth, Byleth, Byleth, “nng, hah, hah! Ple! Please!” His thighs quiver, straining, and when her other hand comes down hard on the surface of his skin he shouts, certain that he must have cum just then and now. It takes him several steadying moments before he can register that he’s still safe, barely, teetering on the edge.

            “F-fuck me, for the gods, Byleth!” Claude shouts, nails digging into his hands, drool spilling from his mouth. Her hand leaves him, prompting a whine from his throat, and he squirms in place. His thighs try to press in, sensitive, but he can’t tell, can’t see, can’t hear, what’s occurring in the space behind him. Try as he might, Claude can only feel however and whatever much Byleth wants him to, and the thought makes his mouth water.

            The room is quiet sans the pants from his mouth, jaw open, eyes darting from dark corner to corner. His legs shake, exhaustion from holding himself up against the hole settling in. Where is Byleth? She must be in there—she must be. She wouldn’t leave him here, not really, would she?

            “B-Byleth?” Panic settles into Claude’s gut, her words suddenly settling in. A hole, mysterious, his robe hiding his face perfectly. What if someone were to come in, some stranger, see their king like this? Would they even know? He had been shouting Byleth’s name but surely, surely some other poor fool out there had a similar one? They had to, he had to, sweat beading at his palms as his mind spun.

            Then Byleth is grasping at his hips, and Claude’s screaming, ass impaled with the full length of her strap.

            “Ha-ah! Byleth! Byleth, Byleth!” Claude’s yelping, unsteady, though he can’t stop the warm bubbling within him at her presence, even if it’s her fingers digging into his ass, strap fucking into his ass. His dick jumps, wet, dripping with precum, and he squirms.

            “Needy,” Byleth must be talking, or shouting, or something. Claude can barely hear her over the sensations raking his body, eyes dizzy. “So fucking needy for me.” Her hands drag lines done his ass, his back bowing, drool welling up and running down his chin.

            “Byleth, Byleth, Byleth.” It’s a mantra, his mantra, need and desire shaking every centimeter of his form. He’s hard, so fucking hard, and every slap of her against him drags him ever deeper into the wet, warm space that the rest of his mind has clearly descended into. He arms sway uselessly by his sides, unable to even wipe at the reemergence of tears.

            Then her hips still, and she’s saying something, surely, yet Claude can barely decipher her words over the whine from his lips. His legs squeeze, weakly pitching up to hook onto her waist, trying to impale her deeper within him. It’s not much of an attempt, just a clench, a squeeze, and he thinks he can hear her laugh.

            The return of her fucking him is followed by lips biting into the small of his back, hands pinching and roughly pulling at his red skin. Claude yells, or cries, or whimpers; he can’t tell anymore, just barely conscious of the constant flow of pain and pleasure wracking his body. He must be moaning, must be doing something, he must be, even though the world seems to have descended into nothing but blankness sans the slap of Byleth against him, the wet touch of her tongue, the sharp pain of her teeth breaking his skin.

            The sticky feeling of her fingers dragging along his cock.

            Claude screams, feeling the world shatter, his mind melting into nothing as pleasure digs its cruel nails into his thighs. He’s being milked, must be, fingers drawing out shot after shot of cum, hips and legs tightening even as his muscles scream, sore, desperate. The tears rolling down his cheeks feel so heavy, his eyes squeezed shut, just the name of his wife bouncing in his head, spilling off his tongue.

            “Byleth, Byleth, Byleth.” It isn’t until the dull numbness of his jaw begins to fade that Claude can register that he’s murmuring his love’s name under his breath. His back is bowed, arms dangling, just barely able to reach the sticky tiles beneath him. They’re cool against his warm fingers and Claude focuses on the sensation, feeling the dizzying heat begin to fade as the world swims back into view.

            Byleth’s slipped out of him, though his thighs still feel remarkably sticky, and tired. Sylvain had apparently forgotten to mention that this was a whole exercise routine within itself, and Claude’s hips slip a centimeter further back, so though enough to let him rest his shaky legs on the grounds. A twist of the knob startles him, his head raising, a shout starting in his hoarse throat as the door swings open.

            It’s Byleth, panting, robe tied loosely at her waist. Claude gapes at her, feeling remarkably silly as his tears slow, reality settling in. Of course it’s Byleth.

            “Hey,” she’s speaking, soft, enough that he has to strain his ears to hear her. Or, perhaps, he’s still out of it, judging from the odd angle the room seems to be tilted at. “You okay?”

            “Mm, sure,” Claude would laugh, but his tongue feels awfully heavy in his mouth. His jaw opens, intent on saying something more, but he finds it easier to just leave it hanging there. Byleth quirks an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, though she does cup his chin to get a better glance at his face.

            “Oh, you were crying.” As though she couldn’t tell. Claude would roll his eyes if it weren’t so much effort. Byleth rubs his face with her fingers, and oh, she does smell like cake this close. Her other hand draws further back, tracing lines along his spine and he arches, sensitive, pliant.

            It’s a surprise when she digs her arm through the hole, gripping at his hips. Claude startles, something rough pulling from his throat, and then she’s pulling, pulling, finally freeing him from the wall. He falls onto her, face buried into her breasts, and, wow, she has awfully nice breasts, that’s right. Claude sighs, turning his face to better angle himself between them, feeling his shoulders drop.

            “Really?” Byleth teases, though she’s laughing, shoulder shaking as her other arm comes down to better grip him and pull his legs through the hole. He should help, really, but the pleasant calling of her boobs keep him firmly nestled in place.

            “Warm,” Claude murmurs, eyes drooping. His hands steady against her shoulder, mind finally breaking free of the muddle crowding his brain. His eyes can focus on Byleth’s face, her warm eyes, her flushed cheeks. Realization digs into his brain and he straightens.

            “Wait, are you, did you?” Guilt floods his stomach, suddenly aware that he had spent the day teasing her, only to leave himself in a position unable to properly satiate her. Seeing his gaze, Byleth grins, shaking her head. She takes Claude’s hand and presses it inside her robe against her cunt, wet, and he swallows.

            “I pleasured myself plenty, believe me.” It’s unfair how well the words make images flash in Claude’s mind, warm, needy. He licks his lips, wondering if he could pull another orgasm from her with his mouth, only to have her slap at his ass. He yelps, arms tightening around Byleth’s shoulders, legs shivering.

            “Like a newborn fawn,” Byleth appraises, and the words draw a tremble down his spine. “Should I carry my prey back home?”

            Oh, how the words prickle at Claude. He’d curse the wall if not for how deliciously helpless he was in it, the strain in his muscles surely turning to future regret for the future. But, well, that’s future Claude’s problem.

            “Carry me home, mistress.” Byleth rolls her eyes, though her lips quirk into a smirk as her hands come down to pick Claude up, folding him by his knees. He shakes, the joy of his wife’s strong embrace always a turn on, and kisses at her cheeks. Her smirk slides into a smile, gentle, as she presses her lips back against his.

            “I spoil you.” Claude laughs, tucking his head into the crook of her neck.

            “You really do.”