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Kinktober 2019

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Day Prompt List By Day

Note: Not all prompts listed will be used. This directory will be properly edited by day when the fic is written and uploaded. 

Day 1. LioGalo (Promare) Handjobs | Suspension | Distention | Hate-Fucking/Angry Sex 

Day 2. McGency (Overwatch) Underwear | Sleepy Sex | Fucking Machine | Stripping/Striptease

Day 3. WidowTracer (Overwatch) Tentacles | Food Play | Tribadism/Scissoring | Weight Gain

Day 4. LioGalo (Promare) Masochism/Sadism | Orgasm Delay/Denial | Feederism | Mirror Sex

Day 5. BillFord (Gravity Falls) Monster/Demon Fucking | Impact Play | Temperature Play | Asphyxiation

Day 6. Spark/Candela/Blanche (PokeGo) Chastity | Pet Play | Overstimulation | Cross-Dressing

Day 7. Clintasha (Marvel) Blood/Gore | Gun Play | Inflation | Emeto (Vomit)

Day 8. Pietro & Wanda (Marvel) Prostitution/Sex Work | Sensory Deprivation | Gagging | Bonds (Telepathic or Empathic)

Day 9. ShinKamiMina (BNHA) Forniphilia (Human Furniture) | Daddy/Mommy | Public | Body Swap

Day 10. Dimileth (FE3H) Toys | Bondage | Leather | Erotic Dancing (Lap Dancing, Pole Dancing, etc.)

Day 11. Hawksdeavor (BNHA) Formal Wear | ABDL/Ageplay | Oviposition | Glory Hole

Day 12. Sabriel (Supernatural) Alpha/Beta/Omega | Degradation | Collaring | Cock-Warming

Day 13. JJSeungChu (Yuri!! On Ice) Edgeplay | Threesome (or More) | Role Reversal | Cunnilingus

Day 14. Edelgard/Claude/Dimitri/Byleth/Byleth (FE3H) Spit-Roasting | Boot Worship | Exhibitionism/Voyeurism | Pegging

Day 15. Edeleth (FE3H) Roleplay | Wedgies | Shotgunning | Micro/Macro

Day 16. Claudeth (FE3H) Stuck In a Wall | Seduction | Olfactophilia (Scent) | Rimming/Analingus

Day 17. LioGalo (Promare) Frottage | Praise Kink | Cock Worship | Object Insertion or Sounding

Day 18. Hilda/Marianne (FE3H) Latex | Straitjacket | Wax-Play | Breast Worship

Day 19. Claudimileth (FE3H) Aphrodisiacs | Double (or More) Penetration | Biting | Uniforms

Day 20. Hawksdeavor (BNHA)  Size Difference | Scat | Dirty Talk | Distant/Distracted Sex

Day 21. Pearl/Rose (Steven Universe) Begging | Xenophilia | Lactation | Masturbation

Day 22. Claudeleth (FE3H) Licking | Costumes or Masks | Small Dick Humiliation | Dacryphilia (Crying)

Day 23. Slade/Roy (Arrow) Nipple Play | Humiliation | Body Worship | Piss (Watersports, Omorashi, Urophagia, etc.)

Day 24. Saigenos (OPM) Intercrural Sex | Vore | Knife Play | Branding

Day 25. Dimilix (FE3H) Face Sitting | Hair Pulling | Cock and Ball Torture/Ballbusting | Smiles/Laughter

Day 26. Terumob (Mob Psycho 100) Feet | Gags | Bukkake | Ass Worship

Day 27*. Claudeleth (FE3H) Spanking | Tickling | Titfucking | Shibari

Day 28*. Claudeleth (FE3H) Creampie | Master/Slave | Deep-Throating | Lingerie or Stockings/Tights/Pantyhose

Day 29. DimiClaude (FE3H) Hypnosis | Sthenolagnia (Strength or Muscles) | Cuckholding | Hot-Dogging

30. Sixty-Nine | Medical Play | Fisting | Shower/Bath Sex

31. Free Day


* Day 27+28: these two days are meant to be read together 

Chapter Text

Day 1. Handjobs |Hate-Fucking/Angry Sex


It is too familiar a heat, boiling under Lio’s skin. Were he more naïve, more willing to trust, he would be caught tight in surprise, suspense.


Promepolis is kind, and it is not. Burning Rescue is a heart of many, shared hearts bring warm generosity to their citizens, to the scattered remains of burnish hiding under rubble and rebel. Lucia builds prosthetic limbs to those who had watched their limbs crumple into ash; Remi and Varys prepare burials for those who have faded too far. Aina and her sister stand strong among the fallen, steady hands taking trembling ones into safety.

Galo greets Lio every morning with the same hopeful smile, every night with soot and dirt caked along his face.

Being on the team is surprisingly peaceful: Lio finds that he enjoys their company, the kindness with which they treat Maes and Gueira. Burning Rescue is a breath of fresh air.

The rest of Promepolis is not.

“Who does he think he is?”

Lio is no stranger to harassment—angry insults and cutting screams, threats to what remains of his family, his friends, himself. With Kray overhead, narrowed eyes watching the world boil under him, it was more fear-inducing. More chilling when he could place the face behind the murders, the blind smiles that watched his cousins burn to ash.

Kray is gone now.

Yet he still finds himself red with fury.

Citizens scowling about and interfering in rescue events have become disturbingly common in his life over the past few days of repairing a split city. Tough as Galo is, the few remaining Promare warming Lio’s hands are tougher. The same weapon once used to level buildings now props them up; flames that burned at the peace now uphold it.

Balance would be easier to maintain without reckless hecklers.

He wouldn’t have minded the insults so much if they hadn’t gotten Galo involved.

“Really now.” Lio hisses, hand tightening its grasp on the leather leash, pulling Galo impossibly closer to his body. The low groan in response vibrates along his dick and he sighs, admiring the way Galo’s nose tickles the soft tuft of hair along his groin, the fluttering of his lashes when Lio runs a hand through it, only to take hold and pull.

Galo whines, baring his neck upward as the collar scratches alongside the bottom of his jaw. It’s easier like this, face flushed red and hair messily thrown back, to see how pitiful he is. How fragile he can be.

How painfully, irritatingly accurate that man was.

“Fuck,” Lio scoffs, releasing the leash to drag both hands alongside the back of Galo’s head. One hand scratches at the nape of his neck, folded over as Galo whines on his dick, drool and precum spilling forward to dribble down his chin.

He looks like a dog in heat.

It drives Lio insane.

“He was right; you know that?” It’s hard to form the words coherently when Galo’s swallowing him down, tongue pressing flat against the head of his dick. Lio grunts when a single hand trails up his thigh to pinch at the skin of his balls, choosing to slap the hand away. The soft whine he gets in response does nothing but warm the pooling heat in his stomach.

“Waamny?” Galo manages, pulling back just slightly to murmur before sliding back down, hair tickling the inside of Lio’s thighs. He hums, ridiculously content to have Lio’s dick hit the back of his throat, swallowing tight as Lio’s hips shake and thrust.

“Yes, really,” Lio snaps, nails leaving skinny red lines alongside the tops of Galo’s shoulders, the backs of his ears. The red lines collide with the burns along Galo’s arm, fading pale in contrast to the new marks, and Lio finds himself wanting to leave more bruises along his prize.

His prize. His.

“Burnish fucker!” The man had spat, saliva hitting Galo’s cheek as he screamed and cursed. Ignis had easily grabbed the man and escorted him from the rescue scene, but the damage had been done, and Lio had watched the slow trickle of spit roll down Galo’s face. Galo had been fine, wiping at his cheek with the same easy smile that always seemed to adorn his face, but Lio had been unable to quell the growing fury in the pit of his body.

To attack him, to scream at him, leader of Mad Burnish? Lio had expected that when he took on the role.

To spit on his dog was another thing entirely.

“Galo,” Lio manages, tense as he cups Galo’s face with both hands, “I’m going to fuck your mouth.”

Whatever answer Galo might have managed around his cock is quickly and effectively cut off as Lio pulls Galo nearly off, lips just barely hovering over his head, before snapping his hips forward. Galo’s hands scramble for purchase for a moment, one settling on grasping at Lio’s hip, the other against the wall behind them.

“Fuck!” Lio curses, fingers curling to leave red indents along Galo’s neck. It never seemed to make sense to Lio how impossibly warm Galo could be for a non-burnish, how warm his mouth is. Galo gags beneath him, head jerking back on reflex, only for Lio’s hand to tug harshly at the collar, pulling him close as his dick relentlessly hits the back of his throat.

Irritation and pleasure melt into each other at the sight of Galo’s half-lidded eyes, mouth pried open to allow Lio to fuck his mouth over and over again. The occasional gag and jerk of his head is quickly quelled by ruthless pulls on his collar, made ever more frequent as the rumbling heat boiling under Lio’s skin builds. His breath grows ever so ragged, low pants overtaking any heavy words weighing on his tongue, eyes only focused on the brimming tears that reflexively emerge as Galo chokes.

It must be the tears, or the happy gasp from Galo as Lio traces the shell of his ear, or the sight of his drool and sweat and precum rolling down his face to drip onto his pants, damp spots growing in frequency. It must be the high whines that cut in air, the choking coughs that never make it out against the scrape of Lio’s dick against Galo’s mouth. It must be the radiating heat, the warm stickiness that coats Lio so smoothly, the eagerness to please.

It must be Galo, looking spectacularly pretty for a man collared and leased, choking on a “burner fucker’s” dick.

“I’m, hah,” wrenches its way from Lio’s mouth before his eyes snap shut, face tensing as the flames building in his body explode, pops of fire burning marks along his skin. “Cumming!” He gasps, short, one hand scrambling along Galo’s collar to tug sharply at his leash, pulling him off his dick. Heat courses through him, shaking, trembling, the world coming to a stop.

It’s only after the after-sex chill begins to prickle at his arms that Lio manages to force his eyelids open again. The sight that greets him warms him so quickly that he could almost swear that the promare were multiplying under his skin.

Galo, face slick with cum painting his face from his chin to his forehead, the fronts of his hair matted down with it, licks along Lio’s thighs. His eyes remain shut, collar and leash neatly pooling under him, pants tented and wet with a familiarly neediness. And yet his hands and knees stay firmly planted on the floor, only his head moving to clean up the trails of sweat and semen that had missed his face to dribble onto Lio’s thighs.

“Galo,” Lio manages, voice hush as he lowers his hands to wipe the cooling cum coating Galo’s eyes.

“Lio.” And god, the little heat still alight in Lio trembles at the hoarse word. Galo manages a small smile, just a hint of teeth, as he licks the semen drying on his skin. “Did I put it out?”

Lio finds himself laughing at that, a soft noise cooling the flickering flames. He had almost forgotten this—Galo’s stubborn optimism could only be backed by such a dense man. The implication, the irritation, the burning flames that the man had thrown their way had probably not even managed to make it through Galo’s ever present firefighter soul.

“Yeah,” Lio nods, leaning forward to press a kiss against Galo’s cheek. The bitter taste of semen invades his mouth and Lio wretches, pulling sharply back with his tongue out. “Ugh, go get cleaned. You need to shower.”

“But Lio!” Galo whines, high and reedy, and, right, Galo’s hands gesture empathetically to the persisting tenting of his pants. Lio sighs, leaning forward to help pull the band over his hips, one eyebrow arched.

“Why didn’t you just touch yourself earlier?” Despite the grumbling, Lio finds himself pulling Galo close, single hand pinching his pec as the other rubs small circles on the inside of his thigh.

“I couldn’t!” Galo gasps, dramatically waving his hands in the air. Lio neatly dodges the movement. “I needed to put all 110% of my firefighter soul on you!”

And that, well, that warms Lio in a different way altogether.

“Idiot,” Lio finds himself sighing. It’s easy enough to slip one hand around the base of Galo’s dick, wet as it is, and give slow jerks. Galo grunts, squirming in his grasp, as Lio’s other hand flicks against his nipple.

“Liooo,” Galo whines, hands encircling Lio’s wrists, “don’t tease me!”

“Why not?” He pulls at the hardened nipple, watching the skin stretch before releasing. The temptation to take it into his mouth overwhelms him, the pleasured gasp shaking Galo’s form even more tempting. Now free, both hands make quick work of playing with the head of Galo’s cock, one finger boldly slipping under the foreskin to tickle the sensitive flesh.

“Li-o,” Galo pants, noisy, and he wriggles haplessly as one hand draws enlarging circles along his lower stomach.

“Ga-lo,” Lio responds, trailing upwards to nip and lick at the peaking skin flushed besides the collar. He scrapes his teeth along the exposed collar bones to feel Galo shake beneath him, sweat pooling at the base of his neck. Nudging the leash to the side with his cheek, Lio bites down on the flesh, the taste of iron violent for a moment because pulling back to lick at the new wound.

“N-no teasing,” Galo repeats, voice hitching as Lio grinds his thumb against the head, the other hand quickening in speed. Lio finds himself grinning, heat flickering again at his body, the urge to leave biting marks at the vulnerable skin temporarily sated.

“Why not?” Lio mocks back, but Galo had done his job well, and what scathing fire prickling at Lio has been cooled enough to relinquish his control. Leash aside.

“Go ahead then,” Lio murmurs, planting a gentle kiss at the curve of Galo’s nape, “fuck my hands like a dog.”

Galo’s responding moan is loud and drawn out, neediness overwhelming as he thrusts his hips into Lio’s sticky palms, precum and sweat smearing at his fingers. Always noisy during sex, his moans increase in frequency and pitch as his back curves back, face turning to kiss at Lio’s face, his lips, his cheeks, barely missing his jaw.

“Lio, Lio, Lio, Lio!” The room seems to tremble and shake under the weight of the words, powerful despite the breathlessness with which they’re gasped out with. Lio scrapes his tongue against the front teeth of Galo’s mouth, his cum tinging Galo’s saliva with bitterness, when Galo rears his head forward to hide in the curve of Lio’s neck, shoulders trembling as he shouts.

Sticky warmth spills through Lio’s fingers as Galo shakes, his wild hair matted against Lio’s sweat-slick skin. The whines and grunts soften as gasps overtaken them, leaving them with the room feeling equally sticky and uncomfortably warm.

“Ugh,” Lio groans, wiping his hands on Galo’s thighs. “Now can we shower?”

“So mean,” Galo murmurs, though his face is still neatly buried against Lio. “Can’t we just sleep like this?”


“Lio! I don’t want to shower!” Galo whines, finally emerging to pout at Lio. It would be more a more convincing argument if Lio couldn’t clearly see his cum still smeared and drying against Galo’s face, the roots of his hair. As is, he’s only tempting Lio to dump bathwater on him.

“If we shower now, I’ll let you cuddle me,” Lio concedes, as though they don’t every night. Still, Galo’s face lights up, and he’s out of Lio’s grasp in a matter of milliseconds.

“Okay!” And there, on his stupid face, is the same illuminating grin that he greets Lio with every day, every night, every occasion and time. Stupidity must be contagious, for Lio finds himself smiling back.

“Wait for me, idiot.”

Chapter Text


“I’m an automatic,” Genji had said, and McCree nearly broke his back laughing. He’s not unused to the varied oddities that decorate his lover’s private’s, usually as a result of his other lover. He’s not joking when he says he owes Mercy his life several times over- sex life included.


Still, the idea of Genji’s lower body running as a sex machine is oddly even more hilarious in real life. His upper body had gone still, visor dark, even as his legs and hips lifted and fell with perfect rhythm. It was an addition that would have sent Genji into a spiraling depressive episode in Blackwatch; now, he only grins cheekily at McCree with an instructional post-it from Mercy, before falling asleep.


What jeering McCree has about the function long faded an hour ago, when he had first settled smoothly over the mechanical extension. It was so clearly a dick, and also not, and he couldn’t resist his lingering chuckles at the intricate detail with which Mercy had crafted this particular one. It was skinnier than the last, more metallic than the usual, and McCree had found himself shivering and shaking as he tried to settle on the cold intrusion. Then he had dug his fingers into the dents of Genji’s hips, pulled, and heard the sound of the engine come to life.


That was an hour ago.


“Nn, hah, guh!”


The sound of metal and flesh slapping resound in the room, seemingly increasing loud to McCree’s ears. What coherent words he once could string together fade behind his endless grunts and groans, throat far too hoarse to manage anything more. It’s too much, too little, his dick soft between his legs after orgasm after orgasm had relentlessly rocked his body, the dried smears of cum streaked over Genji’s prone form. His chest rises and falls, an addition made after Hanzo had freaked about his brother supposedly dying in his sleep, leaving cracks in the semen. McCree scratches lines across his chest, dry semen caking the inside of his nails, as he hisses and cries from the simulation.


“You’re doing great, McCree.” Mercy’s gentle smile is stark in the dark room, illuminated only by the slight green glow of Genji’s dick when not obscured by McCree’s ass, and the two candles she’s lit on his table, tablet a blue glow in hand. She had come in twenty minutes ago, looking ridiculously pleased for a woman who’s been tracking their data for the time before. He manages a low whine turned gasp, shaking as the metallic dick stutters against his prostrate, only to return to normal pace.


“M-mercy,” he coughs, snot and drool and tears running streams down his face, his chest, dripping into Genji’s stomach. Mercy hums, the sound of her pen jotting notes indistinguishable from the small fans whirring along Genji’s back.


“Yes, McCree?” She answers, kind, always kind, even as she refuses to allow McCree mercy from the heated presence so ruthlessly violating his abused hole. Her skirt is bunched around her waist, tights and heels discarded on the floor, and even in the dim light McCree can see she’s wet enough to leak onto the seat beneath her, dark from dampness.


“Mercy,” he repeats, low, unstable, mind dizzy with lust and exhaustion. The word bounces in his brain, rattling, and he heaves as another wave of pleasure rolls over him. The colors fade into each other, dots of green and yellow spraying across his vision, vivid bursts of red as the sensations overwhelm.


His eyes feel crusty and dry when he peels his eyelids open to the blinding light flooding the room. Mercy says something, a soft rumble, and then there’s water sliding into his mouth and a cold bristle of something against his skin, rubbing in vertical motions. He murmurs, or swallows, or something, anything, and then his eyes slip shut.


When McCree resurfaces again, it’s to the sight of Mercy sighing as she cups her breast, pinching her nipples, rocking slowly against Genji’s still body. The air has cooled considerably, window cracked open now to release some of the remains of sex in the air, goosebumps along Mercy’s air a contrast to her flushed form.


“Mercy,” he murmurs, and oh, his accent sounds thick. She turns to him, lidded eyes alight with lust, and smiles.


“How do you feel?” She asks, and the irony of his fatigue being the result of her plaything runs laughter through his lungs. He shrugs, running his fingers along the indents of Genji’s leg, playing with the artificial folds and creases.


“‘M mighty fine now, thank you kindly,” he murmurs. Though sleep prods at him, he finds himself maneuvering closer to kiss at her breasts. Mercy moans, low and heavy, one hand moving to scratch along his scalp.


“Good boy.” Even sagging from exhaustion, McCree can’t deny how the praise warms his stomach. He smiles against her nipple, moving up to press chaste pecks at her lips.


Slick with sweat and fluids, Mercy is soft to the touch, allowing McCree to stroke her sides as they kiss. She sighs, high, lovely, as her hips pick up pace against Genji’s still form. McCree presses a finger against her clit, thumb drawing small circles, as she throws her head back in a noiseless shout.


“Angel,” McCree coos, as he plants kisses along her neck, her breasts, shoulders. Still dizzy, wet and messy with fluids, Mercy has never looked more fitting to the name.


It’s easy enough to get lost in her small arms, pressed so securely against his body. They both need a shower after this, maybe two, and he chuckles at the thought.


They’re not the only ones who need a shower.


“Are you done?” Comes creeping from the head of the bed. Mercy yelps as the legs under her jostle, and McCree is quick to gather her in his arms. Brown eyes just barely open peer over the cover, narrowed dangerously.


“Sugarplum, you were awake?” McCree frowns. Mercy kneads the muscles of his arm gently, wriggling out of his hold to stroke Genji’s leg.


“Did I wake you up? I’m sorry, Genji,” she whispers. Soft, sweet, their little angel is careful as she leans over his prone form to press a chaste kiss against his forehead. Narrow eyes follow her movement, darting to McCree and back, before giving an exaggerated roll.


“M tired,” Genji sighs, and he must genuinely be, judging by the thick accent hanging off his words. He does roll over to kiss Mercy back, a gentle press of his tongue against hers, before lying back down.


“Sorry, honey. We’re just about to wash up and come back, that alright?” McCree asks, absentmindedly stroking the curve of Genji’s knee. Genji’s sigh is long and dramatic, eyes fluttering shut.


“Take responsibility for your actions.” And, oh, that’s right. Despite the stopping of his hips and legs’ automatic thrusting, Genji’s fluorescent dick’s glow still illuminates the room. Mercy and McCree share an amused glance- Hanzo’s tales of Genji being an aggravatingly loud pillow princess and neighbor seemed out of character until they had encountered the two brothers after a day’s worth of sparring. Genji had refused to do much but be pampered in bed, using his legs to direct Mercy and McCree in place to best serve him. Now, he doesn’t even bother, chest rising and falling in slow beats.


Mercy is the first to move, leaning down to capture Genji’s lips again. Her blonde hair is a stark contrast to his, spilling over her shoulders to pool at the base of his neck, hands tracing the small plates of his abs. Without armor, he’s smaller, easier to maneuver, though arguably still just as deadly. McCree finds the gaping between Genji’s hips and thighs, pulling at the metallic tissue. He’s torn Genji apart to pull and play with the wires before, full captured in the warble that would overtake Genji before his voice box would cut out entirely, leaving McCree to hear the quiet, gasping Japanese rambles that only occurred when Genji was too far gone. With Mercy on-site, he doesn’t think she’ll let him get away with so much.


“Can McCree touch you?” Mercy murmurs, lowering to kiss along his throat.  Genji rumbles something, turning his head to glance over Mercy’s shoulder. His eyes roam over McCree for a moment, appraising. McCree smiles, dropping his hands to hook at the lines of Genji’s thighs.


“Touch me,” Genji murmurs, one hand coming close to circle McCree’s wrist. It’s easy to kiss his palm, tongue poking out to run along the divets of his fingers. One hand comes to close on Genji’s dick, now cold despite the sticky coating of McCree and Mercy’s fluids together.


Genji hums, thighs bending to squeeze at the offending hand. Mercy muffles a laugh, stroking his face a moment before reclaiming his lips, eyes on McCree. His hands quickly warm up the skinny attachment, and he leans down to press a kiss against the tip. Even against Mercy, Genji’s low whimper floats out in the air.


“Cum for us, darling,” McCree coaxes, hands sliding along smoothly as he bends to take it into his mouth. Props to Mercy for the design- this is the easiest blowjob McCree’s given Genji in weeks. It’s make remarkably better when Genji shakes against him, thighs closing in to rub against his head.


There’s no mess or fluids when Genji comes, just the hitched gasping and shaking of his body, fans whirring to cool his flushed form. Mercy swallows his whines and whimpers, hands playing with the wisps of his hair, the form of his neck. McCree bobs his head slowly, aware of the pressure on his head, until Genji’s hand comes to tug impatiently at his hair.


“Stop.” It’s no more a plea than a command, and then McCree’s crawling upward to tug on Genji’s lips. It was, and is, an experience to nibble on his silicone bottom and waxy, usually chapped, top lip. Genji moans, low and drawn out, and McCree finds himself swallowing the noise before it can escape. 


It’s Mercy who taps his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. He grins, sheepish, releasing Genji to shrug at her.


“Sorry, angel.” She smiles down at him, leaning to kiss his cheek, before kissing Genji’s. Satisfied, Mercy squirms out of her corner in the bed, overstepping McCree to reach the floor.


“Shower, boys!” With that, she’s off, though not before giving them a sunny smile followed by a swing of her hips. Genji groans, glancing up to McCree with a quirk of his lips.


“Carry me?” McCree laughs at that.


“My arms are jelly, sweetheart. And it’s your fault, to boot,” he teases. Even so, it is a short matter to scoop Genji into his arms. Mercy’s delighted squeal at their arrival making the effort all the sweeter, knowing that she’ll be the one to carry Genji back.


Well deserved, he thinks, and teases her with it so.


Chapter Text


In hind sight, anyone but Tracer would have been better equipped to deal with Widowmaker.

It wasn’t that the young agent wasn’t capable- if anything, her enduring hope and compassion in the face of violence was an inspiration for the older, weathered members of Overwatch. Tracer was the next generation- spunky, bright, and determined to make their world a better one.

It’s just, well.

She just happened to be very, hopelessly, gay.


  “How could you?” Tracer demands, shaking the frame of the bed. Widowmaker’s still form stared at the ceiling, make prone not only by her new mutations as a result of Talon, but also by the restraints keeping her against the bed. Cuffs keep her hands and legs secure to the edge, her body and neck tight with bindings cross her figure. Tracer jostles the bedframe again, and though Widowmaker’s body twitches as a result, her eyes stay cold.

            “You’ve murdered so many,” Tracer murmurs, voice low. “Do you even remember their names? Their faces?” Widowmaker takes a slow blink, infrequent, odd, and Tracer grimaces.

            “No,” she answers herself, tightly, and the push against the bed is purposeful.

            “You never really cared, did you? The lives you’ve ruined; the people you’ve helped kill. I’d ask, again, but you never know, do you? You’re just, you’re just,” Tracer closes her eyes tight, hands clenching, before she lets loose a cruel chuckle.

            “Just a puppet now. Talon’s, no less.”

            Widowmaker makes no response, no movement, nothing but the cold press of her body against the white bed. Tracer runs her hands along the edge of the bed, pulling on the blanket, and shakes her head.

            “I used to admire you,” she confesses, gentle in the hot air. “You were Amelie, beautiful, bold. You inspired me to be free.”

            She scoffs, shaking her head, moving to walk from the bed to the door opposing. The white room, so sterile, so neat, is a sharp contrast to the confusion and nostalgia that wracks her brain.

            “I had the biggest crush on you,” she laughs, something rude, something cruel. The dramatic turn to face Widowmaker is unnecessary, a flair, but she follows through just to place one hand on the skinny blue ankle of her captive.

            “Do you even see me? If I touched you, would you even know?”

            Awful, guilty, desire. Widowmaker’s face doesn’t twitch, her chest doesn’t rise, what little human matter left of her gone the moment her body hit the bed, restraints chaining her down. Tracer slides her hand upward, closer, eyes still on Widowmaker.

            “You kissed me.” It’s the truth. First year, charity ball, her in a short pink dress and Amelie, only Amelie then, in a long purple one. It was an impossibility for her to do anything but stare, lost, dazed, at the beauty that graced the dance floor, the smile adorning her pale face. Smooth, clear, unlike the dirty freckles that dotted her own.

            Amelie had kissed every one, calling them stars.

            She’s Widowmaker, now.

            “You kissed me,” Tracer repeats, louder, harsher, and her hand comes up to rest on the green hospital gown barely covering Widowmaker’s legs. Her armor, weaponry, removed long ago for the sake of safety. Her mind was never quite there to begin with.

            “You kissed me!” Tracer shouts, and her hand punches into the mattress between Widowmaker’s thighs, the surface warping to her touch.

“I had Emily, and you kissed me anyway!”

            Widowmaker twitches.

            “I loved you,” Tracer trembles, her eyes narrow as they trace the blue form beneath her. “I had Emily, but I loved you. And you had Gerald.” The weight of the bed lightens, her hand unfurling to rest on Widowmaker’s thigh, suddenly exhausted.

            “Amelie, when will you come back to us?”

            Widowmaker blinks, long and slow and tired.

            And then her eyes move from the ceiling to the hand resting on her thigh.

            “Emily was a good girl.”

“What?” Tracer yelps, leaping back. Her hands twitch for her pocket, the communicator tucked in the side for cases of emergency. Still, she cannot bring herself to grasp it, Widowmaker’s eyes tracing her movement.

“Emily.” Widowmaker murmurs, airy and listless. Her chest stills, her eyes wander, though her limbs stay cold.

“Do you, do you remember? Amelie, is that really you?” Hope and despair twist in Tracer, the realization of what could be occurring seizing her chest tight. Mercy should be here, not her, here to grasp Amelie and persuade her with pretty words and promises of safety, friendship. Tracer swallows, throat sticky, her hands inching to the communicator once more.

“Tracer.” Widowmaker whispers, and her hands twist this time, waving her closer. She shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t, but Tracer finds her feet tiptoeing without her command. 

“We can make you better,” Tracer plead, grasping the edge of the table. Widowmaker blinked, once, twice, and the fluttering of her lashes against her blue skin drove cruel hope into Tracer. She took in a breath, slow, able, and spoke.

“Tracer. Kiss me.” Tracer rears back, eyes wide, word echoing in the room.

“Excuse me, what!” Inane, crazy. Widowmaker shakes her head, barely, neck still caught in the leather band strapped to the bed.

“Tracer.” Widowmaker calls again, high, pretty, and Tracer swallows. This isn’t right, Widowmaker’s not right, driven mad by chemicals and testing and torture. Talon had sunk their claws into her, and even Mercy could not guarantee that there was a way back.



“I’m cold.”

She is, and Tracer knows that. Knows her body temperature is a cool 8 degrees, knows her fingers are freezing to the touch. Knows that her blood pumps slow, so slow, so Talon can send her spiraling under the waves and still live. Knows that Widowmaker is cold from her blood to her hands to her heart, freezing, brittle shards.

“Lena,” Widowmaker whispers.

Amelie was so warm.

“Don’t do this,” Tracer warns, but her feet move, and her arms move, and then she’s half on the bed, lips shaking. “Amelie, is you’re there, don’t do this.”

“Lena,” Widowmaker murmurs, and her eyes slip shut. “Do you remember?”

“Oi, oi! Hey, Amelie!” Tracer jostles the bed, arms shaking as she touches the bound skinny wrist. It is so difficult to tell whether she is breathing, her pulse so slow, her breaths so shallow.

Does she remember? Of course, of course, but Tracer cannot think. Her mind is as dizzying fast as any bullet to a normal eye, and yet, she can not determine this memory.


The charity ball, and the warmth of which Amelie has embraced her. The stars, twinkling in the night sky, lighting the steps Lena had danced upon. The chill of the evening, near Midnight, and the feeling of Amelie’s moist lips against her chapped ones.

Mercy is going to kill her.

Tracer places her hands on Amelie’s chest, pumping once, twice, thrice. She takes in a deep breath, and presses her lips against Widowmaker’s cold ones.


She does it again, and again, and then she’s gasping and shaking because Widowmaker breathes, eyes on her, a smile, a real, true smile, breaks out on her blue tinted skin.

“Lena,” Widowmaker murmurs, and it’s her, surely, but maybe it’s Amelie too, “Do you remember?”

“I do,” Tracer, Lena, shakes. Widowmaker smiles, then frowns, her pretty face pulled down as she stretches her bound hands. 

“Lena, I want to hug you.” Tracer stares at the blue form under her, at Widowmaker’s eyes, at her furrowed brows, at the wet lips that are formed so cutely. She runs her hands along the straps crossing her chest, chaining her down, stress and safety prioritized over her comfort.

She is a prisoner of war, after all.

“I can’t, Tracer shakes her head. Her hands trace the form of the straps still, and then she’s spread, laying flush with Widowmaker’s body, fingers entwined. Cold.

She’s so cold.

“Lena,” and it’s Amelie, and it’s Widowmaker, she does not know. “Lena, kiss me.”

She does, she does, the transfer of air becoming real kisses, tongues meeting, lips loud. It’s a little odd, spread out in the bed, the shocking chill of Widowmaker against her skin, the crinkle of her gown against Tracer’s uniform.

“Lena, Lena, Lena.” Spills from Amelie’s mouth, and then Tracer is kissing her ears and her neck, spreading blooms of warmth everywhere she goes. Amelie’s hands begin to warm and she smiles against the curve of her breasts, glancing upward at the blue skin.

“Amelie,” she breathes, at home, at ease, here in the present with Amelie. Amelie smiles at her, still cold but warmer, tilting her head forward. The strap around her neck catches and she chokes, startled, shaking violently.

“Amelie!” Spills from Tracer. Amelie is shaking, cold, colder now, the warmth Tracer has planted along her skin melting away as she shakes under the straps keeping her bound. She shakes her head, barely, and grits her teeth.

“Talon,” she hisses, quivers, voice tight and breathless. “Talon kept me bound.”

That doesn’t surprise Tracer. None of this should, the fear, the flashback, the whiplash of cold reality settling in happy spaces. But she’s Overwatch, an agency of creating joy and peace in the world, and she would not be an agent if she could not start with one person. Rebellion and fear grip at her fingers, and yet they are strong when she priest open the buckle of the neck strap, pulling them apart.

“Breathe,” Tracer urges and Widowmaker sighs, shakes, her shoulders twisting forward and back as she rocks against the bed.

“Hands,” she begs, but Tracer can’t, not that, and it must be visible on her face because Amelie screws her eyes shut, face pinched.

“Legs,” she says instead, and that; that Tracer can do. No weapon, no armor, and the belts of her ankles come undone. Her feet curl, pressed down into the mattress, and her shaking slows.

“Amelie?” Tracer tries.

“Lena,” she murmurs, tired eyes opening. “Kiss me, Lena.”

It is more and less difficult this time. Tracer kisses the edge of her lips, pulling on the bottom lip, letting Amelie pull hers. Her hands slide into the long hair spilling beneath her, left loose after capture, combing through the strands. Amelie shivers and gasps, drawing concern, but she’s smiling so brightly as she cranes her neck up without worry to plant a kiss on Tracer’s nape.

“I’m warming up,” Amelie chuckles. Warmth, joyous and sentimental, rush through Tracer as she palms a breast and moans. Amelie’s grin grows wicked as she kicks out with one leg to tug Tracer close.

“I’m quite nude like this. Would you like to join me?” A grin splits both their faces as Tracer leans in to kiss again, saliva spilling from the corner of Amelie’s mouth. Her hands make fast work of her clothes, jacket and belt hitting the floor with a noisy thud. Her shirt, caught by the chronal accelerator across her chest, stays on. Her leggings do not, though tight as they are, and Amelie chuckles as Tracer hops on one foot while pulling the other off.

“Don’t laugh!” Tracer pouts. Her whining is quickly cut off into moans as Amelie kisses her again, tongue poking at the roof of her mouth, their lips curled into a smile.

“Lena, have you ever scissored before?” The word sounds so rough in Amelie’s gentle voice and Lena laughs. She plays with the edge of Amelie’s gown, knowing she has no underwear underneath, and winks.

“What do you think we brits are best at?” Amelie gives and exaggerated roll of her eyes at that, but there’s no denying the wetness that coats the inside of her thighs. Lena slides a hand at the surface, as cool as the rest of Amelie’s new body. But her genitals are the same, familiar, and it is easy enough for Lena to press two fingers into her vagina.

Amelie moans, warm, needy, legs crossing over Lena’s back to pull her in. She smiles something pretty, beading sweat beginning to dot her face, hospital gown crinkling in her haste.

“Lena, please,” she sighs, wriggling her bottom. “I want us to do it together.”

Sunny brightness flares in Lena’s chest at the words. She grins, smearing her wet fingers against the bed, shuffling out of her panties. In the past she might have been embarrassed about the hair that shapes her groin, tangled and wild as the hair on her head. Now she enjoys the contrast with the smooth nudity of Amelie’s skin as she lines them together, legs carefully angled.

“Ready?” The smirk is undeniable in her voice and Amelie groans, exaggerated, before thrusting upward without warning. Tracer yelps, surprise nearly sending her tumbling from the bed, her hands outstretched to wrap around Amelie’s form.

“My love,” Amelie purrs, “I have been ready.”

Lena smiles, slotting them together again, this time careful as they slowly grind. Her hands shake, digging just slightly into the blue skin beneath, drawing red or blue blood. Amelie shivers and gasps, back barely arching against the straps still tight across her abdomen. Lena’s hands grapple with them, snapping the buckle open, sucking and biting at the bare breasts and stomach beneath.

“Lena, oh, Lena,” Amelie calls, her moans overcoming words as her legs shake. They close in tighter at Lena, their fluids smearing as they move, and Lena quivers as pleasure racks her form. Amelie lifts her hips to properly rock their clits against each other, and Lena shouts as pleasure takes its hold on her.

Her eyes screw shut, hands tight against Amelie’s back, mouth open in pleasure between Amelie’s breasts. Her body shakes, fully, the white walls and ceiling glaring bright as they meld between, drowning out Amelie’s blue form. She says something, maybe, but Lena cannot think beyond pleasure.

It is abruptly cut off by a hand around her neck, strong, terribly strong even by skinny fingers, and then Tracer is tossed from the bed onto the floor. She startles, hands flying to her midriff, but the communicator tucked so securely in her pocket is now crumpled under her clothes discarded in the room. Amelie, Widowmaker, stands on the bed, broken straps dangling from her wrists.

“Amelie!” Tracer shouts, but it is too late. Even nude, hospital gown ripped from her form with sharp nails, Widowmaker is a threat to be reckoned with. Her armor and weaponry are locked away in a separate compound, Tracer knows this, and the cameras monitoring the base will notice Widowmaker’s escape. Even if she dies here, Widowmaker will be captured again.

That was the plan. 

The air fizzles to her left, and Sombra appears. Tracer feels her heart seize, cold, colder than the touch of Widowmaker’s skin, at the smug grin on Sombra’s face. Her hand waves at the air and there is Widowmaker’s rifle and gear on the floor.

“Love the show, chica. Very sweet,” Sombra greets, cackling delight. Then she’s gone, back to a fizzle of air, Widowmaker with her. She must be in the room, still, and Tracer is careful to stand before dashing to her jacket, communicator still there.

A hand grips her wrist hard, pulling her hack onto the floor. She grunts, legs kicking, until a familiar pair of lips ghost hers.

“Remember, Lena.”

Even as the form disappears and alarms sound in the complex, no doubt warning every agent of her escape, Tracer cannot find strength in her to run after the two. Her mind spins, dizzy, the words closing in on her even after Mercy and S76 burst into the room to recover her nude form.



She cannot.



Chapter Text

            “I think it’s cute!”

            In almost every other scenario, Lio would probably be pleased to hear Galo’s praise. Galo had a tendency to pet, cuddle, and coo over everything he found cute, usually on the streets when he stops mid-walk to try to steal someone’s dog. As endearing as it is to watch him cry over a corgi’s shapely behind, Lio finds his attitude quite a bit less sweet in this exact situation.

            The situation being the tightness of his former favorite part of leather pants, now refusing to close over his hips.

            “Galo, you can’t say that!” Aina scolds, quick to smack at Galo’s arm. She and Remi are rolling their eyes at Galo, Lucia watching Varys continue swallowing down whole pizzas in the back. Lio shuffles in place, feeling uncomfortable even between Maes and Guiera, his two friends careful to not say anything.

            It’s the smart thing to do.

            “What?” Galo protests, spilling tomato sauce and basil onto the table from the pizza in his hand and mouth. Maes cringes, gingerly taking a napkin and flinging it at Remi to wipe up the remains.

            “I can’t walk around with my pants undone!” Lio hisses, feeling his hair begin to stand on end. Guiera sighs, shuffling over to poke at Aina’s arm.

            “How is he so stupid?” He asks. Galo makes an affronted noise, smacking a hand noisily onto the table. It shakes, the pizza tower wobbly, and Varys cries as he tries to steady the remaining pies.

            “I’m not! I really do think it’s cute!” As sweet as this could be, Lio can’t help the fire flaring in his veins as the neighboring tables glance over to their noisy one. Maes finally takes pity on him, offering his jacket to wrap around Lio’s waist.

            “I’m pretty sure me getting fat isn’t cute.” Irritation colours his voice, Lio crossing his arms as he rocks back into his chair. The stretch of his skin against his swollen stomach another reminder of what Maes and Gueira have been kind enough not to mention in these past weeks – Lio was gaining weight, fast.

            It’s no surprise, given he wasn’t the only one. Most of the burnish had found themselves fattening, even if just slightly, ever since the promare had begun drifting away. Safe and consensual tests run by Lucia, with the reluctant aid of Heris, revealed that the promare had been burning away additional calories by the burnish, and that their bodies had gotten used to eating anything and everything to feed their burning flames. Without the promare to aid them in digestion, and with the same diet, many burnish had been unhappy to discover their bodies rapidly changing without their realization.

            Lio gets it.

            To an uncomfortable degree.

            “You’re always cute!” Galo had cried, though it was too late as Lio had marched away from the table. Since the celebratory pizza party for the final day of cleanup of Promepolis, Lio’s been made very aware of not only the changes in his body, but also the changes in Galo’s attempts to help his body. As certain as Lio is that there are plenty of burnish happy with their new changes, he had grown used to his size, and every new change breaking across his skin was another reminder of the new life he would have to deal with.

            Galo’s enthusiasm to support Lio in his endeavors was initially charming. Now, two weeks of it, the sweetness of it has long worn off. Lio can hardly eat a meal without Galo staring over his shoulders, nor can he sneak off to work out alone without a “helping fitness buddy!” It doesn’t help that Galo, somehow, converts all of his calories into maintaining his muscles rather than any fat. The fact that Lio can neatly cover Galo’s waist with his hands is a level of annoyance that he hadn’t thought possible.

            It was fine, mostly. Galo just happens to be, well, overly enthusiastic in nearly everything. It was okay. He could deal with it.

            It’s the implication of restraint that pisses him off.

            “You just need to, you know, hold back! Control! Like your dragons!”

            Lio would like to think Galo wouldn’t be stupid enough as to insist any of his body changes were the result of a lack of restraint, but the moment the words slipped from his mouth, all holds were off. Anger, at his body, at Galo’s words, at the realization of the future changing beyond his ability, pooled dangerously in the pit of his stomach.

            Well and truly pissed.

            But Galo is—stupid. In the sweetest sense of blind ignorance, and Lio finds that the crumbling cruelty that he could once dish out against any naysayer of burnish rights fades in the sight of Galo’s overgelled hair and sparkling smile. What little he could use to ignite flames and fear dims in the rise of affection, and even full of fury, he can not imagine a life of causing Galo any pain.

Pleasure is a different thing entirely.

Galo must have noticed the new mood overtaken his boyfriend, because he knocks on their door for once. Lio hums, tablet in hand, flicking lazily through a catalog on his crossed legs. The door creaks open, Galo’s face peering in warily until he spots Lio. Immediately it lights up and he pushes the door wide open, leaping in.

“Lio! I’m back! And I brought food!” Dinner? Surprise flits across Lio’s face at the idea, quickly squashed by the idea of salad in the bags. Except, no, they’re suspiciously square shaped and stacked tall.

“I brought pizza!” Aww, sweet. “Aina said we can eat pizza if we put on half the cheese!” Less sweet.

Still, the endless enthusiasm Galo has for embarking on this unnecessary diet with Lio is a reason to quirk his lips, hand outstretched for a box.

Half the cheese ends up being a reasonable compromise for all the vegetables and meat piled up, and it’s easier to taste the tomato sauce without cheese to cut through. Galo in true fashion ends up shoveling entire pies into his mouth, rolled up in the form of a burrito, and Lio sighs at the inevitable mess of sauce and vegetables dripping onto his chest.

“Don’t dirty the bed,” he warns. Galo makes some sort of noise, and stuffs another slice in his cheek.

They finish the pizzas with relative ease, full though not stuffed, and Lio grins up at Galo’s dirtied pecs. It’s uncommon for them to eat at home, but he has the benefit of free dessert every time they do.

“Galo,” Lio calls. Galo perks up immediately, grin red with tomato, poking his tongue out. Clearly, Lio’s trained him well.

It’s easy to press a kiss against both cheeks, soft, teasing, before dragging his tongue up Galo’s chest. It quivers under him, a soft whimper breaking through Galo’s lips, and Lio trails along the fallen pizza bits. He scrapes his teeth at every tomato stain, breaking the drier spots before lapping at them until the skin is soft and flushed underneath. A fourth of a pepperoni is nicely place in the center of his chest and Lio nips it, teeth just tugging at the flesh, careful not to break skin so early.

Though Galo wriggles at the sensations, his tongue stays poked out in a happy smile. Lio places his hands on Galo’s hips, pressing them flush together to grind their hardening members. Lio moans, sharp, before sucking on Galo’s right nipple, teeth scraping on the darkened nub. He can’t quite resist biting down just enough to draw beads of blood, quick to lick away at them. Galo gasps and sighs, hands plaint at his side.

Finally sated, Lio shifts his hands to tug downward at Galo’s hair. His idiot boyfriend is already pink, lightly panting, tongue out. Lio pinches the tongue with his fingers first, pulling, curling, before placing his lips onto Galo and sucking. A low whine rises in the air, motivating Lio to scratch lines along the scalp of Galo’s head as he chews on Galo’s lips.

When they part, chest heaving with the need for air, Galo plants a soft kiss at the edge of Lio’s lip. He smiles, eyes lidding, as he slips out of Lio’s grasp to kneel at the edge of the bed.

“Galo,” Lio whispers. Galo is so easy, so eager, obedient and willing to please. It makes Lio’s head spin in a delightful way, and he finds himself digging through their drawer to grasp a familiar friend.

They won’t need the tail today, not with Lio’s plans, but Galo yips happily as Lio slides a blue eared headband over his hair. A collar, black lined with pink satin and studded, is secured around his neck, a heart locket dangling from the center. Attached to the ring is a leash that Lio slips over his wrist, staring down at his boy.

“Galo,” he says. Galo barks, god, loud and obnoxious and stupidly appealing.

“Galo,” he commands, spreading his legs open at the end of the bed. Galo pads over on his hands and knees, laying his face onto Lio’s thigh, blinking up at him from under soft lashes. It is so easy to run a hand through his hair, careful not to clip the ears, tugging on the long strands.

“Lio,” Galo speaks, raising his hands to paw at Lio’s thighs. Lio grins, crossing one leg over Galo’s head to let his foot rest against Galo’s shoulder. Galo stills for a moment, eyes wide, before an easy smile droops across his face and he slumps to the ground, allowing Lio to press both feet against his back.

Lio hums, crossing and recrossing his legs over Galo’s back. One foot swings back to smack against his ass, causing Galo to startle forward. He grins, swinging his legs back and forth, occasionally coming to rest at the curve of Galo’s spine, occasionally to spank Galo again. It becomes a rhythm in the room, side of his foot bouncing against the curve of Galo’s ass until Galo keens, high and whiny, bent forward with his face buried against his arms.

“Lio, Lio, hah,” Galo pants, though he keeps his back deliciously arched to perk his ass in the air. The usual baggy pants are barely hanging onto his hips, and Lio can appreciate the creeping pink visible above the hem. He slips his foot to toe the crack along Galo’s ass, dragging the pants down fully to reveal his pretty red behind.

            “Lio, come on.” Galo’s whines are pretty and petty in one, his ass shivering as Lio leans in to inspect it. He pats the red flesh, made warm from the pain, gently tapping along the bubbly curve before bringing his hand back to sharply slap at the flesh at Galo’s thigh.

            “Hey!” He shouts, surprise overcoming, before Lio grasps one hand onto his collar to snap his head back. Galo gasps, air sufficiently cut off while Lio delivers three quick swats to the top of his ass. He shakes, shouts fading into garbled gasps and whimpers.

            “Lio!” Galo yelps when Lio pauses to pinch at the abused flesh, now flushed a deep red. It’s hot against Lio’s hand, and he slips a finger between the heated cheeks to press at Galo’s hole. Galo moans, soft, hips gently rocking in the air at the movement, only to whine when Lio’s hand retreats.

            “Lio, I’m close!” He cries, hands shaky as he wriggles his ass. It’s tempting for Lio to just place a hand onto the dick no doubt throbbing against Galo’s stomach, but he resists to place his feet back on Galo’s back.

            “And? What do you want me to do about it?” Lio chuckles at the shocked gasp from Galo. There is a moment of staring between them, Galo gnawing on his lip as his hips shake. If he were to safeword and call it off, Lio would let him.

            Galo shakes his head, and bends his head back down to the floor.

            Lio grins.

            “Come here, dog.” It’s as much a threat as it is a command, and Galo grins as he clambers onto the bed. Even without the tail in his ass, it wiggles playfully in the air, and he paws at Lio’s arm. The ears on his head also seem to quirk in acknowledgement.

            “Turn over.” Galo’s smile turns toothy as he falls onto his back, knees bent just slightly. His dick stands proud, an angry red dripping precum across his stomach, and Lio licks his lips at the sight. Tempting as it may be, he stands over Galo’s nude form, one hand tugging at his own sweatpants.

            “Take these off,” Lio commands. Galo rears upward onto his elbows to kiss at Lio’s navel, tongue and teeth messily sliding at the skin. Lio groans, heavy, as his hands dig into Galo’s hair to pull him downward to his crotch. Galo nips at the sweatpants, wetting the surface as he kisses and licks at the outline of Lio’s dick.

            “Galo, no teasing,” Lio hisses, nails digging in small red crescent moons into Galo’s scalp. Galo whines, and when he pulls away from Lio’s crotch there is a line of spit between his lips and the wet spot.

            “Take. Them. Off.” Galo gives a shaky nod, lips perfectly wet, as he grits his teeth against the band to tug them down Lio’s waist. It’s a slow descent to reveal Lio’s underwear, a wetted pair of boxers, and then Galo leans in to kiss along the bare skin of his hips. Lio sighs, hands relaxing to tug and pull at the loose strands, one hand reaching forward down to tug at the ring of Galo’s choker. His ears tickle against his skin as Galo mouths along the curve of his groin. Finally, Galo manages to pull down his underwear, Lio’s dick swinging upward to smack against his stomach.

            Even without prompting, Galo places a soft kiss against the head of his dick, then another, then another, trailing downward with every peck. Lio sighs, thrusting his hips just slightly against Galo’s face, until Galo reaches the base of his dick to suck on one of his balls. His hips twitch, rutting against Galo’s face, before he pulls back with a hiss.

            “Off.” The responding whimper from Galo is nearly as delightful as the sight of Lio’s precum smeared across his cheek. Lio smirks, releasing his hands to slide along Galo’s neck, cupping his chin gently before pushing him back onto the bed.

            “Come on!” Galo protests, though his voice is light as Lio climbs down his waist. He slips a hand behind him to thumb at Galo’s dick, humming, before slipping it further down to thumb at his greedy hole. Galo takes in a breath, waiting, but Lio simply brings his hand back up to pull at his balls.

            “Lio, please.” Galo whines so soft and prettily for him, always, and Lio smiles. He leans down again to kiss at Galo’s lips, pinky, swollen, and then further to nip at his collar bone. A hand tugs on his leash, baring his nape, and then Lio’s drawing blood again. A string of red moons form along Galo’s shoulders, bringing with them whimpers and needy gasps, and Lio licks at the scarred skin.

            “Close?” Lio murmurs, a hand descending again to tug sharply at Galo’s dick. He cries out, hips thrusting once, before his spine curves, knees coming up again. Lio glides their dick together in his hand, slowly grinding as he lays more kisses and hickies at the sensitive skin beneath. Galo’s moans and gasps increase in frequency until he’s unable to form much words, just shaking at Lio’s antics.

            “I, I, ha, Lio!” He is close, unbearably so. Lio can tell from the look of his eyes, faraway and dreamy, and the drool spilling from the edge of his lips. The ears are askew, knocked slightly off to the side from his thrashing. He bites down on Galo’s nipple, the same spot as before, before he bucks his hips upward and pinches the base of Galo’s dick.

            “What!” Galo’s rumpled scream is cut off by Lio grinding down against his thigh. His grin is toothy, dangerous, launching himself upward to bite at Galo’s lips. Galo’s moans are high and needy, hips now unashamed in their thrusting at air, though Lio’s hand stays secure at the base.

            “Lio.” Teeth dragging at his bottom lip, tugging it forward. “Lio.” Tongue scraping at the lid of his moan, dragging a long whine from Galo. “Lio.” Breathless, senseless, a string of grunts and pleas muddled in his mouth. “Lio!” Bucking of hips against his hand, and still, Lio refuses to let go.

            “Restraint, remember?” Lio taunts. Galo pants, mouth so thoroughly ruined and spit smeared, brows just barely furrowing at the words.

            “Restraint?” Galo whines. Lio groans. Galo sounds so lost, out of breath, out of mind, the sight of his palpable dizzying desire a direct shot to his dick.

            “Hold back? Control?” Lio teases. Galo blinks wearily and Lio scoffs, releasing his grip to swing his legs away from the bed. Galo startles, launching to follow Lio, only to stop as Lio laughs, waving a bottle of lube in the air.

            “We fucked yesterday,” Lio shrugs, though his grin is toothy, “but I happen to enjoy fingering you open.”

            Galo matches his grin, easily sliding back onto his stomach to arch his ass in the air. The sight brings another groan to Lio, wetting his fingers with lube before approaching Galo yet again. Galo hisses as he circles his hole, cold fingers needing to warm against his skin. He kisses the asscheek, still pink from the earlier spanking, and Galo sighs and whines while shaking his ass.

            “Please don’t tease me.” More of a plea than Lio will ever mutter, Galo’s voice is a dreamy noise and Lio is only too willing to appease. He presses one knuckle into Galo, careful to plant kisses along his back, the other hand pinching the head of his dick. Galo presses against his finger, back arching to rock himself on the digit. Lio smacks the flesh of the bend between his ass and thigh, garnering a shriek.

            “Don’t move.” Galo shivers at the command, obedient as he bends his head back down. His ears barely hang on, drooping to rest on the bed as his ass bounces in the air against Lio’s hand.

            “Lio, Lio, Lio.” Lio squeezes a second finger in, slowly letting them drag along Galo’s ass. He pants, high, hips shaking in an effort to not fuck himself on the fingers. Lio groans at the tightening resistance on his hand, Galo’s thighs squeezing together to block his view of his dick bobbing against his stomach, dripping wet.

            He’s so pretty like this, red bottom up in the air smeared with lube, fucking himself on Lio’s fingers. If Lio were kinder, he would bring a hand up to stroke Galo’s dick, fingers scissoring to push his boyfriend to orgasm.

            Too bad.

            Galo’s needy whine at the loss of his fingers is a delight to his throbbing dick, leaking and hard. Lio’s tempted to take care of himself first, abandon Galo to his own handling, just to see the look on his face.

            Then Galo’s turning, face beautifully red with tear tracks on his cheeks, and Lio finds that he can’t help but lick the strip of skin from Galo’s dick to his hole.

            “Please. Please, please, please, please.” It’s a babbling lullaby of pleasure, a straight shot of pleasure to Lio’s dick, and he grasps Galo’s leash to throw him onto his side. Galo’s air escapes him in a huff, his lips forming a circle moments before Lio’s weighing onto him again, biting and nipping at his lips, their tongues swapping spit and drool that trickles with the tears down his chin.

            “Fuck.” Fuck, fuck, Lio’s so goddamn hard, so close, and he’s rutting against Galo’s dick as his hand wriggles back into Galo’s ass. He scissors his fingers, Galo shaking and tightening against him, large hands coming up to wrap around Lio’s waist as he shouts. Lio finds himself panting and hissing, pleasure mounting high, curving his fingers into a hook to press down in Galo again and over again.

            “Fuck, fuck, Galo, Galo!” What words left in Galo have become nothing but pleases with Lio’s name intertwined, and Lio can’t bring himself to think of anything hotter. Galo’s hands grip his back, one sliding up to pull at his hair, the other barely able to steady itself on the curve of his spine. Lio scrapes his teeth against Galo’s tongue, fingers relentless as he fucks Galo against the mattress.

            Galo screams when he comes, fingers curling to dig into Lio as he shivers and curls, ass squeezing Lio’s fingers impossibly tight. His cum is a hot splatter against Lio’s stomach, painting the slight chub with the white substance. Lio groans, crooking his head to bite against Galo’s neck around the collar, hips still thrusting against Galo’s squirting dick as pleasure wipes his mind.

            Cold begins to settle along Lio’s legs when he finds himself able to properly blink again, eyes squeezed shut from the orgasm that wracked his body. Galo’s eyes are barely open beneath him, face still red and messy with the remains of his tears, spit, and the small smear of Lio’s precum across his face. His ears must have been knocked off at some point, hair just in disarray, tempting Lio to comb through the locks with his fingers.

            “Lio?” Galo’s voice is a mere croak in the silence. Lio hums, twisting his fingers out from Galo, scissoring just once to see Galo flinch and moan. The betrayal flashing across Galo’s face is admittedly sweet, and Lio leans in to kiss at his swollen, marked lips.

            “We should get cleaned up.” It’s a fact, though Galo’s pitiful groan and slump against Lio makes it quite clear how he feels about it. Lio grins, patting at his side, feeling his own brand of exhaustion tug at his tired limbs.

            “Restraint and control, remember?” Lio muses, wriggling out of the warm hands wrapped around him. Galo whines, pouting at him, looking unbearably adorable for a man flushed from sex.

            “I don’t get it!” Galo cries. Lio stares at him for a moment, mouth gaping, before clicking it shut. Galo looks serious, and he isn’t exactly a liar, which means, most likely, that he’s understood absolutely nothing.

            Well, he’s an idiot, after all.

            “Stupid,” Lio scolds, though he’s smiling. He tugs at Galo’s leash, and though Galo grunts in disapproval, his legs finally unfold to propel himself upward from the bed.

            “Guess I’ll have to teach you again.”

Chapter Text

It’s worship.

Stanford is happy, truly, wholly, happy to be at the feet of his muse. Every glance, every touch, every vibration in the air is the realization of glory, lust, joy and greed brimming at the roof of desire. The house seems to quiver at his beloved muse’s every appearance, as though itself bowing to the massive power at hand.

Bill is beautiful.

Bill has always been beautiful.

He is especially so when Ford is choking on the floor beneath him, body twisted and warped and bruised, erection the only part not mangled.

“Bill,” Ford breathes, praises, pleads like the fire burning in his veins can be anything compared to the sheer warmth radiating off his beloved. His arm twists back, pops out of his shoulder socket, broken and mangled and bleeding, and it feels like heaven. To be beaten, to be ripped, to be torn at the hands of his muse. Ah.

He is so blessed.

“Oh Six Fingers, What would you Do without me?” Bill sighs, legs cross as he comes close to caress the burning flesh of Ford’s cheek. His touch is a startling cold in contrasts to the fire boiled Ford alive and he pants, the pleasure of Bill granting him sensation far over weighing the pain.

He’d die, most likely, alone and caught still in the chains of his own desires and futile chases for more. Ford would die without knowledge, without sight, without the sensation of Bill’s stringy fingers pressing against his face, crackles of ice shattering the skin. Ford would die without his beloved muse, without this adoration, without the slow brush of Bill’s lashes against his face as his fingers come away.

Bill snaps his finger and Ford is flying, alive, thrown into the ceiling and the floor. His teeth shatter, gums red and angry with abuse, but the stream of moans and gasps from his lips make no mistake the joy he’s so firmly enraptured in. Pain, glaring pain, wrench into his stomach and legs, glass shatters digging red lines over and over and over again.

They spell Bill and Bill and Bill in English and Latin and French, and symbols of a language yet unknown to him. There’s lines and circles and triangles and stars carved into his flesh, overlapping, contrasting, the red red streaks making art out of his meat. Bill watches him, always, always, and Ford shivers against the floor. His hips, broken as they are, find some purchase in humping the air, as though it could grant him any relief from the searing heat charring his skin.

“Bill,” he shakes, finger nails chipped into perfect triangles, red and blue and red again.

“Bill,” he says, ice replacing the glass impaling his skin, his lungs, his heart. It freezes his blood on sight and he’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying.

“Bill!” He screams, loud and inane and deranged, sharp pangs of pain flaring to life under his ripped skin. Life is an illusion, swirling, twisting, his body so torn ripped ever so easily into threads. Bill can unravel him and unravel him again without purpose, without need, and as Ford’s neck shakes and constricts, his frozen lungs falling from his chest, mounting pleasure comes to a peak.

He is dying at the hands of his muse.

Nothing could make him happier.

Wet semen coats his hair, his eyes, his face, as his body is turned into itself. He cannot scream, cannot beg, not even gasp as there is no air to make sound on. The room trembles under his joy, his pain, his mercy, and the sound of water rushes past his frost bitten ears.

Ford opens his eyes to his bed, thighs sticky, and a familiar yellow triangle floating overhead.

“Woah there, ol’ six fingers! You okay there?” Bill’s eye flutters down at Stanford, and though there is no mouth visible on his small form, the laughter in his voice is evident. “Sure you are! I kept you right and dandy, hope you remember that!”

“Of course,” Stanford croaks, throat remarkably dry. His whole face flushed at the realization and then he’s grappling with the empty cup by his bedside, only to realize the water he had poured into it prior was all gone.

“Oh, that? Haha, sorry Fordsy, you should have said you wanted it! Breaking bodies is thirsty work, you know?” Though his throat protests at the lack of liquids, Stanford feels warmth at the realization that his water could have been of use to Bill. He smiles up at his muse, bringing his hands forward.

“Thank you, Bill. I’m always happy to help you.” Bill hovers over the open hand for a minute, waiting, always. Stanford’s smile grows larger at the familiarity. “Please, could you grace me with your presence?”

“O fine, if you put it that way!” Bill settles into his palm with ease. He is so thin, so small, and Stanford makes quick work of shuffling out of his room to reach the kitchen. Balancing Bill on his left palm, his other hand pours a cupful of water.

“You’re sure thirsty! Wanna get up and at the machine, don’t ya?” Bill elbows the thumb beside him. Stanford chuckles at the sensation, light, dense, and curls his fingers in to poke at the yellow form.

“Of course,” he promises, warmly. Bill lights up, always, always, a shade brighter and shinier with every moment Stanford brings their dimensions closer together. Soon he’ll be able to be with Bill all the time, in good, in bad.

It feels like a dream come true.

But the machine is a long ways away, and he still has some... pressing desires at hand. Bill must notice because he sighs, shifting on the palm.

“Really Fordsy? Humans are so weird!” Stanford chuckles, his cheeks flushing red. He didn’t understand at first, but time and time again with Bill has grant him enlightenment. Bill doesn’t need to have sex, doesn’t desire it, doesn’t require it. But weeks after Stanford had done wobbly work due to nerves at performing in front of his muse, Bill had sliced him up and demanded answers.

Sex with Bill is a fantasy come alive. He can do anything, everything, to shatter and twist and break Stanford’s body, but he always comes back. Pushed and pushed and pushed and then pulled, sharp, dangerous, across the edge of pain into pleasure and back. The first few times had been slow, fear gripping at Stanford with every new intrusion of blade or shard; now he welcomes it fully, anticipating how Bill will ruin him anew.

And it must be a human thing, to need to repay.

“May I touch you, please?” Stanford whispers, crossing over from the kitchen to the couch. Bill hums, always, still and strict with every interaction. Stanford understands- he is a god, beautiful, powerful, worth loving. To be touched by a mortal is wrong.

But Bill thrives on wrongness, on guilt and desire, and his eyes make a show of narrowing.

“Well, well, well. Getting greedy now, are we, Stanford Pines?” 

“Yes.” He is, he must be, greediness and neediness one and the same. He wouldn’t dare be so demanding in the past, not to Bill, not to his muse; time and time again, however, he’s come to realize Bill enjoys his sparks of spitfire. His desire to fight.

It makes it all the more enjoyable to shove him into place.

“Please let me touch you.” Insatiable, hungry, swirling desires lay heavy in his stomach. Though Bill has delivered him the gift of pleasure time and time again, he knows still that this is a present for him, not his muse. That Bill lets him satiate himself on his form, fondling, dreaming, of a life they share together.

Bill hums. Stanford waits, leaning back onto the couch throw.

It is a gift and a pleasure when Bill stands, floating overhead from Stanford’s fingers. His eye rolls back to bare teeth, then back again, lashes flickering rainbow.

“Well, go ahead, six fingers.” Approval dances through Stanford as he grins, hands raising to gently lift Bill out of the air. His muse, beautiful, sharp, powerful, is still deceptively light on his fingertips. It is easy to run against the smooth brick with his thumbs, nail barely catching on the slight ridges making up Bill. Bill’s eye stares into his own, watching him beam with every scratch on the golden surface.

It is always Bill’s generous grace that grants him a chance to touch his small form, and Stanford savors it.

“Bill, Bill, so beautiful,” he whispers. Under his touch Bill feels different, warmer to the hand, softer and malleable. At the beginning, the texture change had horrified Stanford, believing he was hurting his beloved. Even Bill had been mystified, angry, and the following weeks had been cruel disappearance and loneliness as Bill refused to respond to his calls.

That Stanford had regained his trust, his love, turns him on so wholly.

“May I touch you?” He murmurs, index finger poking at the bow tie on Bill’s form. It doesn’t come off, but it does tug, and pull, and Bill shakes just slightly in his hand.

“Aren’t you already?” Bill laughs, always, joy and mischief radiating off him in waves.

“Please,” Stanford begs. “May I kiss you?”

Bill is silent for a moment, shivering, nails barely leaving any curved moons in his softened bricks. His eyes lower, half lid, a tickle of his lashes against Stanford. Finally, finally, it closes completely, onlyto reopen a dark hole.

“Let’s skip the wait, Sixy! Now come on!” Bill gestures at the gaping hole taking up half his face. Stanford swallows, warm, unfamiliar, and he is careful to place Bill onto a higher couch cushion. He stares at his triangle, his beloved, his Bill. Without the eye, nothing stares back, and Stanford presses his lip against the hole.

Bill tastes like nothing and everything. He is just slightly warm and moist, softened like his exterior after handling, but Stanford’s tongue always feels just slightly dusty and dry after entering. He is a vacuum, sucking Stanford’s tongue in with ease, and yet it is so difficult for him to even move it. There is so much space in Bill despite his small size; Stanford is certain that if he were not careful, his whole self could be swallowed up.

“Bmll,” Stanford sighs, fingers still running lines on his god’s form. Bill is melting, gooey, lines dissolving to sag through his fingers.

“Mmov wuu,” Stanford promises. Bill does not sigh, nor moan, no high keening whines nor singing praise. He is still, silent, but his body drips and his hole constricts around Stanford, all of space available in the size of a quarter. He does not spill any fluids, make any mess; a tiny hand grasps the back of Stanford’s head, pulling him back so sharply he could swear his neck would snap.

Bill sizzles, black hole gaping still. Stanford stares, suddenly alert, aware that there are trails of shining otherworldly darkness dripping from it, smeared onto Bill’s golden body. His eye rolls back, a small white dot becoming larger until it smashes through the hole to rotate into place. It looks at Stanford, wide, whole, white with red veins encircling the center. Against the black around it, it looks as though an entrance to another world.

Bill says nothing as he fizzles out, color fading even as Stanford reaches out to try to hold onto his love. In a matter of moments, milliseconds, he is left on his squished couch, the burning imprint of a triangle against a cushion. His dick is hard in his pants, wet enough to stain, and Stanford makes no resistance to tug at it with his hand still streaked with black.

Bill is gone.

But he might be watching.

Stanford wants to give him a show.

Chapter Text

“Babies! I’m home!” Candela calls as she smacks her door wide open. The other occupants of the hall, largely team Valor interns, have grown weary of their leader’s volume, and silently make plans to escape the dorm for the next two to three hours. Candela smiles their way, waving just once before she slams the red coloured door behind her.

Two hours of privacy is more than enough for her plans this evening.

The sound of creaking and whines makes its way through the thin walls, and Candela’s smile grows vicious. She takes her time to remove her overcoat, gloves and boots discarded by the doorway. There is a still warm cup of tea set for her in a Moltress cup, matcha and honey, and she takes a sip. Leading an international division is never easy work, and though she knows Spark and Blanche are equally hard at work, Candela tends to feel especially tired around the edges at the end of a long week. It doesn’t help that there had recently been new goals and discoveries set in place after rumors of new Pokémon set for release next month, and Team Valor is always vying to go.

She’d say Spark has it the easiest if not for the knowledge that he’s making up for the small size of his team through raw power. The rarity of Spark embracing his role as leader has made the few occurrences ever the more charming and sexy. Just thinking about it makes Candela lick her lips.

The moaning and gasping from the bedroom seem to pick up noise as she stands from her chair, tea in hand. Her apartment is a long skinny thing, with the bedroom hidden in the back after a narrow hall. She glides a hand along the wall, following the glimpse of light shining out from a crack in the door, and peers inside. A feral grin crosses her lips.

Spark and Blanche look absolutely lovely in their attire, a tightly fitted butler uniform featuring black straps on Blanche and a frilly, lace lined maid dress flaring out on Spark. Atop their heads are a pair of pointed white cat ears for Blanche, and yellow fluffy dog ears for Spark. With the accessories, Candela could imagine them waiting on her after a long day’s work, ears perked attentively as their hands keep busy with making her life just a bit easier.

                They’re not very useful servants fucking on her bed like that.

                “I come home from a long day to this?” Candela calls, knocking on the door more audibly before swinging it open. Blanche doesn’t stop in thrusting their hips forward into Spark, the two of them red faced and sweat slick as they bounce on her mattress. They do, however, turn to catch Candela’s eye.

                “Oh, mistress. My apologizes for the mess.” There isn’t much of one, Candela’s floor remarkably clean in contrast to the usual state she leaves it in. In comparison to Blanche’s room, terribly immaculate and in place, her own might come across as a shoddy ditch. Still, Candela shrugs as she gestures to the two.

                “Fucking? On my bed? Without me?” She sneers the last question, a dangerous look flickering across her eyes. Blanche frowns, their lips pulling into a pretty little pout, one that simply demands Candela come over and bite it off their face.

                “I’m trying to breed you a new servant.” Oh?

                Spark keens at the words, finally lifting his head to glance upward at Candela. He looks positively gorgeous, eyes a blurry flashing yellow as he moans, hands digging holes into Candela’s throw. It’s a rare treat for Spark to bottom outside of his own room, his destructive impulses often laying waste to the blankets and pillows propped under his body. Blanche must have known this even prior to initiating, and Candela finds herself smirking as she debates who to punish.

                It’s still odd for him to be ruining any property outside his own domain. Candela whistles, watching Blanche and Spark still to stare at her, chests heaving. The strap on tied around Blanche’s waist makes a squelching noise as it slides out from Spark, shiny with fluids.

                “Pup, turn around.” Amusement flits on his face before complying, twisting his arms out from the blankets to lie on his side. As suspected, the slim fitted red cage is strapped onto his cock, containing the otherwise equally red member. Blanche makes an aborted move to slap Spark back into place, stilling at the last moment to frown at Candela.

                “Do you need the dog for something, mistress?” Snarky. Candela grins, shrugging as she toys with the collar of her dress. Blanche’s eyes follow the movement, calculating even in the bedroom, before they return to pulling Spark’s hips sharply back. He yelps, squirming in place until Blanche’s seated deeply in him once again.

                “Yeah, mistress. What do you need from me?” Spark’s grin is remarkably animated for a man in a cock cage, ass beat red with the sound of Blanche slapping against him knocking him forward. A wiser man would know to keep his mouth shut, but, well, Candela’s never fallen for him for his brain.

                “Careful, dog,” she warns. She grasps the hem of her dress, pulling it slowly upward with a grin at how both Spark and Blanche slow to stare at her. In an ordinary day she’d have them remove it themselves, but walking into a breeding session has made her a little more impatience. “Or you might not end up coming today.”

                Spark barks a laugh, hoarse and a little crass, gathering the fluffy skirt to pull it upwards. Like this she can see the curve of his back, perky ass in the air, dried streaks of lube dragged across it’s pink surface leaving behind cracked lines. Candela shakes off her dress, dragging a hand through her hair, waiting.

                “I didn’t think I was going to,” Spark murmurs. Blanche’s fingers tighten their grip on him, slamming their hips forward twice with enough force that he shouts, ears making an arc as he bares his neck back. Blanche’s panting, a low fire burning in their eyes, as they grip at the black mass of fabric over Spark’s back, snapping him back to sit on their strap.

                “How dare you speak to mistress in such a way,” they hiss. Candela purrs, unable to resist licking her lips, unsure whether to sway forward to join them or to wait it out. Blanche glances her way, looking amusedly catlike for a moment, before moving their hand upward to grasp at Spark’s neck. He gasps, Adam’s apple bobbing, before shooting a toothy grin at Blanche.

                “Bad kitty.” What other clever words he has are lost in a heavy groan as Blanche jerks their hips upward, pulling him down flush against their body. The pretty maid outfit is quickly wrinkling under the tension, and Blanche’s eyes flare blue a second before they break the zipper entirely, hand slipping through the new hole to wrap around Spark’s chest.

                “Careful with the clothing,” Candela calls. Blanche’s eyes are narrow and dangerous as they flicker her way, icy cold. They angle their body, rocking against Spark still, sliding their other hand from his neck to his now bare chest, dragging the ruined cress downward. His bare skin against her wrinkled, though relatively clean, butler jacket is a joyful contrast. Candela smirks, raising her hands in mock surrender, taking a seat.

                “Continue,” she offers. Spark rolls his eyes, winking playfully at Candela before rotating his hips against Blanche. They grunt, pinching at his skin, as his hands take a firmer grasp on their waist.

                Candela hums at the scene playing out, tugging on the hook of her bra until it comes loose, falling to her lap. She pinches at her nipples, rolling one nub in her hand as the other flicks at the soft thing. Blanche makes a particularly noisy gasp when Spark turns his head to bite onto their shoulder, effectively ruining their clean jacket, and the punishing slap of their hips against his in retribution is music to Candela’s ears.

                “Blanche,” Spark whines, licking at the spot and wetting the fabric, “too many clothes. Even Candela is less dressed than you.” Blanche swats his ass twice for that, eyes narrow, before dragging a single hand down to rip straight through the buttons holding their top together. Candela whistles, drawing both icy and golden eyes to flicker her way, and she knows her own have flared red in reply. She crosses her legs, letting her breasts hang as she moves forward, aware of how their ears glance downward before returning to her eyes.

                “Play nice, pets.” Spark barks for her, eyebrows waggling, before redoubling his efforts to fuck himself against Blanche. His response is an angry growl, hand pulling at his hair before Blanche leans down to nibble on his neck.

                “Mistress is too kind for a dog like yourself,” Blanche purrs, hand poking through the holes of the cock cage to stroke at Spark’s cock. He groans, hips grinding against nothing, and Candela can hear the snapping of thread under his hand’s strength. True to form, the rumpled form of her blanket falls to the floor, four finger sized holes now in it.

                “You’re not too bad yourself,” he hums. His hand reaches back to thumb at the space between Blanche and their strap on, fingers pressing just slightly against their clit. Blanche startles, pulling them flush for a moment to heave, before redoubling their effort to claw and pinch at Spark’s body. They moan in unison, Blanche’s eyes misty before a piercing blue glow overtakes them, and then Spark’s shaking away from her hands, the impression of ice in the form of handprints patterning his back.

                Candela laughs, unable to cool the gnawing flames boiling under her skin. She strips off her tights without any earlier elegance, then her panties, kicking them off to join her ruined blanket on the floor. Blanche’s eyes flicker between their usual dull blue and a glowing near white shade, body shaking with the force of their orgasm, when Candela places both hands on their frozen face. Her hands burn cold for a moment before burning up again, and she captures Blanche’s lips with her own.

                Cold and hot, at such extremes, form a cloud of mist from their mouths. Blanche gasps, steam emitting from between their lips, before Candela recaptures them. Blanche’s teeth are icy cold in contrast to Candela’s heated tongue, as she refuses to pull away until they reach a more comfortable temperature. Spark presses a kiss to her lower lips, and she chuckles into Blanche’s mouth.

                By the time Blanche’s lips warm to human temperatures again, their eyes are drooped and cheeks flushed, looking remarkably well fucked. Candela grins, licking a stripe along their cheek, before glancing down to the sight of Spark so lovingly dragging his teeth on the inside of her sticky thighs.

                “You okay, Blanche?” His voice is syrup sweet despite the devilish grin on his face, slick with Candela’s drippings. Blanche rolls their eyes, sufficiently tired out, shrugging off the tattered remains of their jacket to sit back on the bed.

                “I am fine. You should be more focused on pleasing Candela.” A fine tap out if Candela’s ever heard one. She presses one last chaste kiss on Blanche’s cheek, weaving their fingers together.

                “You heard them, Sparkie. Eat up.” Needing no further incentive, Spark dives back in, tongue making quick work of entering Candela. She groans, rocking her hips against his face, careful to angle herself to bump her clit against his nose. Blanche steadies her hands down, leaving gentle kisses and nips along Candela’s shoulders and back.

                Candela sighs, feeling the day’s tension cool as pleasure begins to mount in waves. She’s always been a fan of the faster stuff, quick and dirty, and she grasps Spark’s hair to tug him to dig deeper into her vagina. His hands come up, one to pry her further open for his tongue to have more space to work with, the other to pinch and flick at her clit. She moans, bouncing on his face, leaning back against Blanche.

                “Today was unbearably long,” Candela groans, pinching at her nipple. Blanche rolls her other in their fingers, now pressing soft kisses to the back of Candela’s head. “I had so, hah, much work to do. Ugh, ah, ahh, my team is—nn, so ungrateful!” She shouts the last words, hips rutting low, certain that she’s squashing Spark under her weight.

                He squirms under her, tongue and fingers working her open with ferocity, and she pants noisily as her hips pick up pace. The sight of his own hips thrusting at the air makes her grin, and she reaches forward to pinch his dick. He yelps, vibrations shooting pleasure throughout her body, and she feels her eyes clench shut at the sensation. Her hands continue to stroke him, though they don’t loosen the cage, and his licking at her grows messy, moans overtaking his technique.

                “They should appreciate you more,” Blanche scolds, and Candela has barely a moment’s warning before they grasp her chin, angling her face to better capture her lips. She moans into their mouth, the chill in their breath, so acutely aware of the heat in her own. She’s heating up, growing unbearably hot, and Spark licks and gnaws at her lips, fingers working faster. He presses his tongue flat against her clit, shooting sparks of electricity through her veins, and she screams, feeling akin to a volcano ready to erupt.

                Her body burns hot, stars forming and imploding in her chest. Her vision is red, truly red, pleasure burning her up from her toes to her hair, unable to differentiate the sensations of Spark and Blanche and Candela herself, only aware of the waves of heat and pleasure sending vibrations throughout the air.

                Candela comes down to herself on the rumpled blanket, holes and all, now sporting a fresh charred smell. She pants, dragging a hand through her apparently sweaty hair, glancing upward to Blanche kissing Spark. He’s a lovely shade of red, twitching and moaning as Blanche pulls him up by his ass, cupping and pinching the round flesh. When Blanche finally pulls away to check on Candela, she can see that his lips are burnt.

                “Whoops,” Candela chuckles. Spark grins, overly smug in contrast to the sight of his dick throbbing still in the cage, though it doesn’t burn at her. She manages to hoist herself up on wobbly elbows, smiling at the panic flitting across Blanche’s face, before nodding at Spark.

                “Come here, Sparkie.” Surprise and confusion take both Blanche and Spark for a moment, before he crawls over to her. Blanche shuffles back, though Candela catches their wrist before they can move too far. She smiles, crooking a finger at Spark.

                “Can’t breed a broken doggy, can we?” Her hand pulls at the straps of his cage, loosening the snap until she can slide it cleanly down his thighs. He pants under her, eyes darting between her and Blanche carefully, though there’s no denying the neediness in his eyes. Candela grabs at his ass, pulling him above her head, winking at them both.

                “Careful with the property,” Candela warns just once, before pulling his ass square onto her face. She licks at his puffy hole, hands spreading his cheeks for better access, hearing his startled yelp and moans loud and clear. He rocks against her slowly, heading the warning, though his thighs are quick to quiver and twitch around her.

                Spark’s whimpers and gasps grow increasingly loud in the air, so sensitive after being unable to cum for so long. Candela finds it easy to spread his hole with both thumbs fitting, still room to fit her tongue. She presses down in his flesh, feeling him squeeze and shake around her, hips beginning to take up pace.

                “Careful!” Is the only warning she gets before he grinds down onto her face, thighs squeezing tight on both sides of her head. She continues to lick at the greedy hole, twitching as it is, as Spark’s shouts hit a climax. He groans, loud and drawn out, legs tense as he shakes. Candela continues to fuck him with her tongue, dragging it along the skin from his hole to his balls, only to bump into a familiar face.

                Blanche laps at Spark’s dick, streaks of cum across their face. Spark’s noises die down to whimpers and quivering breaths, both hands pulling at Blanche’s hair. Candela chuckles, a dry passing of noise, before leaning back down to pinch at one of his balls, licking along the skin.

                “Okay, too much, okay, okay,” Spark whines, hips jerking back from every touch. Candela lets him go, though Blanche refuses to relent until they clean every remaining drop of white from his stomach, thighs, and dick. He quivers at their tongue’s movement, legs crossing around their chest, before groaning dramatically.

                “Blanche, please.” Finally sated, Blanche pops their mouth off Spark, looking remarkably pleased. Candela doesn’t resist laughing this time, sparing a pitiful glance at her destroyed blanket, now sporting more holes in it than before. Seeing her glance, both Spark and Blanche cringe.

                “My apologizes, Candela,” Blanche sighs, bundling the ruined remains.

                “Yeah, sorry!” Spark is quick to add on, though his toothy grin hints otherwise. His chest shakes as he takes in deep breaths, yet he still has enough attitude to wink at Candela. “Lucky for you, you have two replacement bed warmers right here.”

                Blanche cringes, visibly biting their tongue at the comment. Candela, however, laughs, shoulders shaking as the day’s events sag at her body. Thoroughly exhausted, though in a much more satisfied way now than before, she stands from the bed.

                “Pets.” They perk up, both eyes on her. She smirks, wondering if her eyes have flashed that lovely red she loves so much. “I want dinner.”

                “Yes, ma’am.” Unison, obedience. Candela smirks, swinging her hips as she walks to the kitchen, picking up her now cold tea. Waving it in the air, she slips out of her room, still nude.

                The sound of pattering feet behind her smooths her smirk into a real smile.

                Ah, she loves being mistress.



Chapter Text


Dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb。

Clint muffles his groan, hands twisting on the ropes keeping him down. He’s stuck, obviously, but that doesn’t stop him from rotating his ankle and trying to determine a weak point on the chair he’s tied to. There’s a gag in his mouth that smells weakly like it might have once held chloroform, and the fact that it’s still there means he’s not dealing with professionals.

That makes the fact that they captured him a little more stupid.

He huffs, biting just slightly on the cloth as his fingers pull on his gloves. They really must have been newbies to have left them there, allowing Clint to access the flat tool kid given to him by SHIELD, filled to the brim with a variety of last minute tools. One of which, he happens to know, is a slim knife for undoing rope ties such as this one.

It’s awfully quiet upstairs, which tells him nothing. His hearing aids are mostly fine, the one in his left ear fizzling just slightly. Natasha could be laying waste to his kidnappers in the silence, but they just as likely could be having the time of their lives, trying to negotiate with SHIELD only to realize that their captive isn’t worth much at all. Clint knows they’re trouble- him and Natasha both, but they’re good at their jobs and arguably the most efficient pair SHIELDs ever had the pleasure of running across. It would be a fools move to abandon him to the sharks.

But he’s thought himself valuable before, and was deserted all the same. It’s better to not have high hopes.

The door to his room creaks open a hitch, and his breath catches. It’s easier to close his eyes and hang his head down, in hopes his captives are dumb enough to confuse his prone form for being asleep, or better yet, dead.

Then the door gets blown clean off its edges.

Clint cracks open his eyes with a grin.

“Mnahhha.” It sounded better in his head. Natasha rolls her eyes, beautiful in her bloodied catsuit, gun in hand. Clearly she kicked the door down, and the knowledge that she was pissed enough to start destroying property feels especially gleeful. Her already red hair is dyed a darker shade by the splatters of blood against her face and shoulders, more along her hands to her elbow. Her legs are remarkably clean disregarding a few flecks of coppery red, a fact Clint would whistle to had he not have a gag tucked into his mouth.

Natasha must notice because she grimaces, poking at the gag with her gun. Love of his life, this woman, even when she’s pointing a gun into his mouth, safety off, hand coated with the remains of those who dared to capture him. He winks at her, wriggling in the seat, and she lowers the gun.

Her other hand grabs his left ear and yanks.

“Owwoowowoo!” Clint groans, eyes squinting. The room goes suddenly still, quiet, and he raises an eyebrow at her. She pulls out his other hearing aid with the same efficiency, showing them both to him before dropping them to the floor. He imagines a cracking noise as she steps on them, grinding his aids into dust.

She lowers the gun next to his neck and pushes the trigger.

He should have startled, probably, but maybe it was better he didn’t based off the self-satisfied smile that flickers onto her face. She lowers herself to him, grasping the gag in his mouth with her teeth (ew, bacteria) and then spitting it onto the floor. He grimaced and she grins, before leaning down to bite at his lip.

She tastes like blood and fire, merciless goddess. He moans into her mouth, letting her tongue push his down, hers roaming the roof of his mouth. Her nails scratch at his head, oh, and they leave scraps of dried blood and guts in his hair. He licks at her bottom lip and she sighs, temporarily content.

As much as a horn dog Clint may be, Natasha tends to be on the far spectrum of “I really don’t give a flying fuck” about sex. She introduced herself as not caring, not needing, and certainly not interested in receiving, and to this day she hasn’t failed in keeping to her words. While Clint spends half his time getting shot at by hot girls and guys, and sometimes coming home with half his shirt torn off and a few oddly placed hickies, Natasha is perfectly content staying by herself.

Sometimes though, she gets in a mood like this.

“Did they touch you?” She mouths. She’s probably whispering, quiet even with the entire place gone, but he can’t hear a thing in this world. It’s almost gentle without the taste of blood in his mouth, bits of something in his teeth. Clint runs his tongue over his top lip and flashes a toothy smirk.

“These amateurs? No way.” Cocky, playful, the way she likes him best in the beginning. They have quiet sex sometimes, in the midst of the night when they can’t sleep between moments of memory and regrets, reflections on a future they never got a chance to see. Clint holds her hands as she rides him, breathless, chasing a temporary high that leaves them cold and unpleasant at the end. Cuddling helps, kissing helps, but there’s not much to do when the silence is a reminder and talking only makes it so much louder.

It’s better to be noisy from the get go, and just carry it all the way through.

“Careful,” she snorts, rolling her eyes down at him. A stray hair falls to cross her face and she huffs at it. “You got caught by these amateurs, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Natasha grips his neck, powerful hands for being so skinny. He grunts, bending his head back to allow for better access. She squeezes him tight, just a second, before releasing and humming.

He likes these games they play, and she likes them too. It’s nice for her, something more basic than sex, to be in control of a situation. To be free. She’s stood locked and chained to so many loose hands that sometimes she needs to be the one to tie someone up.

It’s not the same in a mission. There, they’re primed to kill, to torture, to spread blood and tears and the stench of death to walls and ceilings. Here, it’s her. It’s him.

In an empty room smelling faintly of blood, it’s just them.

“Natasha,” he drawls, twisting in his binds, “hurry up.”

“Impatient.” She’s all calm and testy, and her hand tapping his cheek twice with her gun. He imagines she might have slammed it against his face, just enough to bruise, had he not been held captive for an unknown time. Her stare is unusually soft, something more raw flickering in her pupils, and he takes the moment to slide his tongue forward to flick at the gun. It earns him a favorable eye roll.

“Dumbass,” she murmurs. It’s fond, nearly unbearably so, the slow enunciation of her words unnecessary. He could chuckle, something playful, something sweet. Instead he suckles at the tip of the gun, tasting powder, tasting blood.

Natasha’s beautiful. Clint’s known this, obviously, since the moment he’s set eyes on her. Yet she truly is an unworldly beauty, elegant in her kills, fascinating in bed. Her hair is a pool of red around her shoulders when she moans, nails digging moons in Clint’s back, teeth leaving trails of bites and bruises. She walks away from bed porcelain, as supple and breathtaking as any word of art, and leaves handprints and scratches in her wake. Her breath is a pleasure, her touch a pain, and the moment her eyes flutter shut Clint is reminded that he has reasons left to stay alive.

He would kiss her, if she wouldn’t snap him in half for doing it.

It’s easier to deepthroat her pistol, grinning at her as his throat bobs. He gives a mocking groan, throaty, loud, and her eyes narrow at the noise. He trails the gun with kisses, eyes glued up at her the entire time, staring at the single red strand loose from her head.

There’s a very real pressure suddenly against his groin, and the moan startled out of him is anything but mocking.

“Impatient,” she reminds him. Clint shoots her a wink, certain that she’s caught onto the creeping red on his face despite the poor lighting in the room. Her foot grinds onto him harder, the blocky heel an awkward fit scratching against his pants. His eyes dart down and back to her, eyebrow quirking, and she raises an eyebrow back.

Alright. Interesting.

Natasha’s never been comfortable as a receiver. Giving, her freedom, her dreams, her future, has come as easily to her as losing them. Clint’s tried to return them to her, new friends, new job, a new chance at something better. It’s never worked, and he’s seen her in shattered glass and ivory enough times to know it never will.

Natasha gives and gives and gives, and Clint can only hope that in the process he gives something to her too.

She seems awfully in the mood to give tonight.

He’s never been one to turn down a present.

Clint waggles his eyebrows at her, shameless, obscene even, with a bloodied gun in his throat. It gets him a smirk and a harsher grind on his groin and he moans, crooking his mouth impossibly wide to show off his teeth skimming the top of the gun. She jams it in closer, safety switch still clearly off, and he wonders if it’s possible for her to blow his head off. Wonders what SHIElD would say, their best operatives taking sweet time to fuck in an enemies headquarter, blown to shit hell and wall to wall with gore.

He’d laugh if she wasn’t redoubling her pressure against his crotch, pointed toe nudging at his head.

He’s suitably wet already, always, a quick and easy plaything for Natasha. She taps his cheek with the hand not holding the gun and his eyes follow her mouth.

“I want you to cum in your pants.” Wow, uh, okay. Hot.

Clint gives her a gracious moan and a little wiggle in his seat. She doesn’t like showing off, usually, but somethings got her in some kind of mood if she wants him to waddle into HQ smeared with his own cum. Maybe she wants him leashed, maybe she wants him bloodied. Both sound equally appealing in her hands and he sighs against the gun stretching his throat.

Assassins as they are, even they know how stupid it would be to attempt to fuck Clint with the gun. Doesn’t stop him from bobbing his head onto the metal, imaging it a smoother shape, Nat’s hand pulling his hair back to get a better glimpse at his face. It’s a little uncomfortable, a lot unsanitary, and the combination of the two against her heel on his crotch is better fuel than he could have asked for in this dingy dungeon.

It’s a simple relief when he cums, spilling against his own boxers and pants, knowing that he’ll have to walk with that wetness. He groans for her, watching her lift her heels off the chair, gun slipping from his mouth. The trail of spit falls from his lips to her fingers, and she secured it to her holster wet. Natasha grimaces at it, quirking an eyebrow at Clint. He laughs, sore, suddenly at ease.

She cuts the binds of his upper body, handing him her pair of his hearing aids. The world crackles around him as he slips them in, sudden, and then it’s a dull buzz of nothing but Natasha undoing the binds of his feet, slipping close to him.

“Okay?” She mouths, she says, and he kisses her lips. She tastes like blood, like poison, like death and regrets come to a head, and he waits until she sighs into his mouth. Slow, mellow, until they’re breathing in unison, on a plane without morals.

“Okay?” He asks back. She doesn’t smile, her eyes don’t light, just a perfect blank mask on her face. He waits, still, perfectly free to move without the weight of her against him, without the binds of his chair.

She nods, and he breathes.


He kisses her again, like that, wet pants and rope burns against blank slates and blood stains. No moans, no whines, no dramatic fluttering of lashes. Him, and her, in a building of fallen bodies.





Chapter Text


          Sibling telepathy works a little differently when one sibling is actually telepathic.

          Pietro groans as he rubs at his eyes, dazed after just rousing from an otherwise peaceful slumber. He was dreaming something about croissants and squirrels stealing said croissants when a shiver wracked his body, then another, and then he was startling awake feeling distinctly sticky. Quick as he was, the blanket on top his body was quickly tossed from the bed, and in a matter of miliseconds he was cupping himself awkwardly in the bathroom, now certain he hadn’t actually had a wet dream. Instead, he was simply painfully hard, alone in the floor he and Wanda normally share in Stark Towers.

          She should be here, sharing his misery, if she wasn’t having some fun somewhere else.

          Pietro has half a mind to fight with Vision, or perhaps Captain America, or even Black Widow or Hawkeye. He is not certain who it is that she’s playing with today, nor does he find himself too interested in joining in. In the months he had spent asleep, a state near-death, Wanda had found herself something resembling a family. An unusual one, certainly, with a web of casual intimacies he cannot wrap his head around, but a family nonetheless.

          He would not take anything more from his sister.

          He just wishes she would take him into greater consideration at nights like this.

          “Ughhh, Wanda, why?” Pietro hisses, rubbing at his betraying dick. He feels wet, sticky in a certain way, and it isn’t hard for him to close his eyes and focus on the feeling. There’s a hand cupping her breast, rubbing circles into her nipple, another two knuckles into her pussy. He groans at the feeling, magnified onto skin and flesh that isn’t there.

          A tongue touches her clit and he yells.

          “Really?!” Two. Two people, at the least, appraising his sister so. Pietro has half a mind to run out of Stark Tower to confront her, certain it would be a quick trip to discover her location and temporary lovers. It would certainly serve her right—his limbs remain sore from the training earlier this morning, and every stretch of her body sets his aflame.

          Something mocking drifts into his brain and he returns it with a nasty zing, feeling particularly irritated. So Wanda is aware of his awakening, seemingly enjoying his exhaustion. He makes a mental note to soil her breakfast tomorrow morning, perhaps sour pancakes? Coffee grinds in her milk. Moldy strawberries might be a bit too far.

          She nags at him, a needling in his brain, and Pietro sighs. The hands are back, pressing more firmly, and he presses his body against the cold bathroom tiles in retribution. Wanda hisses, heat flickering at his skin. He’d muster a proper response if not for the tongue invading her throat, his, and then he’s choking on air by the sensation of a mouth drawing shapes along his groin.

          The world flickers between bright lights and darkness for a moment, his eyes glassy as her world glitches into view. He can’t see, can’t hear, only the retreat of her mind a safety from the sudden sensations wracking his body. He shrieks, and then their minds are washed out in darkness, bodies writhing at the pleasure of being pushed overboard. The vibrator pressed against her, his, their clit is torturous, overwhelming, and he yells and kicks at nothing.

          Someone grasps his face, forcing his jaw open, and then there’s wet folds pressed against his mouth.

          Wanda, Pietro, groan. Her tongue laps obediently at the vagina offered, grinding her tongue at the dripping entrance. Another mouth does the same to her, and against the vibrator still wracking her body with pleasure, it’s terribly difficult to focus on properly eating out the person pressed over their face. His hips stutter, rocking against the person, and when they crook two fingers into his ass he yelps. Two hands return to grope and pull at their breasts, sharp stinging making the skin swell. Almost as quickly as the last, Wanda is screaming again, toes curling, world reddening, and then Pietro’s awake on cold tiles.

          “Oh, fuck.” There’s cum smeared on the floor and his stomach, and it is only blind luck that he ripped off his clothing the moment he fled his bed in a panic. A litter of bruises trail his chest, no doubt bites on his sister, and they prickle pleasantly when he ghosts a finger over them. A groan forces its way out of his throat, lingering wet heat making his mouth salivate.

          “Hate this. Hate this!” The pro of super speed is cleaning the floor in a millisecond. The con of super speed is that he’s fast to anyone but himself, which means that he still has to scrub and wipe at his semen on the tile floor in hopes that none of Stark’s cleaning bots will discover and tattle on him to the rest of the team. The temptation to place the blame on Wanda is dawning, though he has an awful feeling that the team would be more intrigued on the extent of their bond than accepting the excuse.

          His dick betrays him, still leaking and hard. His legs already feel shaky, never having had quite as much stamina as his sister, and Pietro can see her darkness with every blink. She’s shaking, but pleased, a certain excitement trembling through her body. Wanda is happy, and Pietro should be happy for her.

          It’d be easier if he didn’t have to give up his sleep for her.

          Armed with a box of tissues, wet rags and disinfectant stray, Pietro settles back into bed—her bed. Wanda will inevitably nag at him tomorrow for the smell, but he believes she should reap her rewards. His eyes flutter shut, mouth gnawing at his neck, vibrator moves to her breasts, a dick rubbing at their entrance. He sighs.

          It’s going to be a long night.

Chapter Text


“On the count of three, your minds would have swapped bodies.




          Mina’s eyes drew up shortly, dazed blinking overtaking her as sunshine glared harshly to her poor pupils. She groans, squinting a moment, to rub at them, slowly opening her fingers to allow the blinding light to seep in.

          When she could manage them open, the first thing she realized was that she was wearing black sweatpants.

          “What?” She murmured. The air smelled distinctly less sweet than usual, more stale, somewhat dry. She parsed a hand through her hair, careful near her antennas, only to realize that 1) her hair was distinctly less soft than she liked and 2) she had no antennas.

          “What!” There, at her side, sat Mina, gaping at her with the same stock-still expression she adopted when taking a hard test. They stared at each other, pink skin to pink skin, until she realized that her hand pointing at herself was not pink but pale, her nails unpainted, and, at a quick duck down to her body, breasts not endowed.

          Behind them, someone coughed.

          “Can we go now?” Shinso murmured, nursing his boba against his mouth. He’s wearing the same purple tinted grey sweater Mina forced him into this morning, with small cats printed along the bottom and collar. The black cut off skinnies adorning his leg were also her pick, though it was Kaminari’s careful teasing and handling that got Shinso to begrudedly swap out his looser pants. He’s looking awfully calm and fashion forward for a man who’s partners are currently freaking out.

          “What?” He finally says, raising an eyebrow at them. His eyes are beautiful, even hued by the yellow round sunnies (again, courtesy of Mina, she’s so fab, she knows), especially when they narrow at them. “It worked, didn’t it?”

          “We really swapped bodies!?” Mina’s voice sounds odd to her own ears, lower and more echo-esc than she’s used to. On the other hand, Kaminari’s voice is squeaky and harsher, and she finds herself wrinkling her lips at it. Her own face does the same to her, and she groans dramatically.

          “Nooo, I’m so unfashionable now!” Kaminari, her body, sputters at her. She waves at him, her, this is so weird. “Look! Look! You’re licking at my lipstick! Reapply!”

          “Hey!” Kaminari shouts. Shinso snorts, ducking behind his boba when they both turn to him. Kaminari, in Mina’s body, ugh, so confusing, does a decent impression of her pout. She goes for a full scowl in his, very unusual, and stands at full height. Shinso raises an eyebrow at her, stoic, but all she can register is that for once in her life, she’s staring down at him not in platforms.

          Huh. She grins.

          She can live like this.

          “Alright, boys! Let’s go on this date!” Kaminari, still her, gapes. It totally wrinkles her makeup and she waves at him, shaking her head.

          “Kaminari, today I’m going to teach you the wonders of being… a girl!” Shinso doesn’t do quite as good a job hiding his snort this time, and Mina grasps his arm in hers (ooh, her hands are so big now!). Her other wraps around Kaminari, wrist remarkably slim in her hold, and she finds herself wondering for the first time if she really is so small in their eyes. Kaminari stares up at her, Mina’s hair floating around her face, and she grins.

          Gosh, she’s so cute!

          The date goes pretty fantastic considering she and Kaminari have both walked into the wrong bathroom at least twice. The only plus has been staring at other guy’s dicks with enough intensity to creep them out, and Shinso’s horrid attempts to stifle his laughter. Mina’s found he’s also less likely to run from her fingers, Kaminari’s fingers, which would make her feel bad if he hadn’t scolded her at least thrice for trying to make him lose concentration. Right.

          If Shinso goes down, this whole experiment goes down too.

          Might as well get her plan moving then.

          “To the dressing room!” Mina grins, pointing at herself. Kaminari grins back, now thoroughly enthused after being dragged around half the day, surprisingly adapt at wearing her heels. Shinso’s suggested it might be her body’s capability to wear heels, and though she couldn’t remember ever being so good at it, he simply hid his smile in reply. The largest joy of swapping bodies has been being able to see herself try on clothes—it turns out frilly dresses do look nice on her, thank Momo, and that her boobs do look awfully nice in sweaters. Okay, she already knew that, but she just wanted Kaminari to notice how nice.

          “You sure we can all come in like this?” Kaminari grins at her. It’s almost strange seeing his smile on her face—they’ve always been so similar in many ways, but now she’s noticing that he crinkles her lips a little more than she does, and that she squints her eyes more than he. Shinso wades behind them in silence, now nearing two hours of swap, more concentrated on keeping them properly hypnotized rather than engaging in talk.

          Mina gives them her signature cheeky grin, waving her body into the dressing room. Kaminari shuffles in with the swinging of his hips, winking scandalously at Shinso, who snorts and drags her in, pulling the curtain shut behind them.

          “Are we really doing this?” Kaminari’s wobble of her lip is mysteriously attractive, and Mina grasps onto her body to pull him close. It’s odd, the small shape of her shoulders, the messy ruffle of her hair, pressed against his larger body as she slides his tongue into herself. He moans, high and warbly, and she grins as she cuts his tongue on her teeth, closing her eyes.

          The best part of making out with yourself happens to be knowing what you like. Mina runs Kaminari’s hands, hers now, against her horns, rough fingertips scratching the base of her scalp. He moans against her, knees bucking, and she sucks on her own tongue. His hands grasp onto her back, pulling up his own shirt, until he’s about to draw nails down her back. She shivers, gasping into his mouth.

          This is good.

          This is really good.

          She moans, trailing her hands down to grope at her breasts, cupping them from inside the bra. She lets them fall from her hands back into the cup twice, hearing her own voice groan, and leaves a trail of kisses down her neck.

          “Is this, is this good?” Kaminari asks, breathless. She grins wickedly, tugging his shirt clean off, flexing the subtle muscles there. Months of working out together has resulted in him finally acquiring a set of abs he’s been proud to show off, and Mina is all too eager to flash them to her own eyes, well, his now. Kaminari chuckles, rubbing at her shirt, eyes flickering up. The oddity of seeing her own yellow pupils is no longer an issue, and she glides her hands up her own shirt.

          “Let me take this off.” No questions, no issues. He grins at her, toothy, her teeth remarkably sharp, and she bites down on the sudden flush of heat that runs through his body. Is this what it’s like when he sees her, confident, cocky, shirt off and breasts bare? Is this how he feels when they’re nude and sweaty, sticky lips and fingers on the bed?

          She swallows, heart pounding, as she finally pulls the shirt off her own body. His smile is a touch shy, a touch erotic, and she swallows.

          “Shinso!” She calls. He raises an eyebrow at her, back to them with his hands clutching the curtain. Only his head is turned their way, eyes bogged down with his usual exhaustion. “Come join us.”

          “No.” Mean. She pouts, expectant, but he doesn’t move. Kaminari joins her, frowning as he struggles to unhook her bra. At the very least, Shinso manages to chuckle at that.

          “I can’t focus otherwise.” Truth, perhaps, though it doesn’t stop the mischievous flickering in Mina’s stomach. She wants to play with him, pull down his pants and jerk him off against the curtain, just to see how far they can get before a store attendant notices.

          Kaminari manages to get her bra loose, and then her mind stops at the sight of her own tits.

          Not that she’s a particularly picky person, Mina’s just never found her own breasts super exciting. They’re big, and perky, and round, and yes, very much suckable. It’s just that—well, they’re hers, and she’s spent half her life with them firmly implanted on her chest, causing her back pain, weighing down her running.

          In Kaminari’s body, the rush to his groin is no mistake of the brain, and she’s finding herself particularly excited to suck at her nipples.

          “Oh.” She murmurs, his voice sounding particularly heavy, and then she’s dropping onto her knees to kiss at her own stomach. It should be odd, a strange sensation of licking herself; instead she’s heated, heavy, tongue tingling off the sweet taste of herself. He moans through her mouth as she trails the pink happy trail upward, hands drifting to slide along her sides with the barest hints of pressure she knows she likes, and then he’s running her hands through his hair, tugging just slightly.

          “Mina, Mina, wait.” Breathless, fast, and then he’s tugging her off her body even before she can reach her breasts, just staring at the shadow descending off the fold of them over her stomach. She’s panting, drooling, saliva pouring out her mouth. Is he always this needy?

          The thought warms her heart, sending tingles down his body.

          “Kaminari,” spit leaks onto his chin, his pants. She hooks his fingers into it, shoving them down to his thighs, letting his dick prop up and smack his stomach. He pants overhead, messy, wanting, and she smiles.

          “Kaminari.” Softer, sweeter, even though the voice is an octave lower and scratchier than any she’s used before. He moans in her voice, and then she’s sliding her own skirt down, staring at the lace thong she chose that morning. It’s firmly wedged against her now, pink tinted fluid soaking through the lace and down her thighs, and she smiles.

          “Kaminari, can I eat you out?” Kaminari’s breaths are shaky, sweet, and she presses his tongue against her, sucking through the lace. He shakes, her thighs coming to press close to her head, as she licks lines upward through the thong, sucking and kissing where she knows her clit is. She’s no stranger to her own body, and the intimate knowledge that her clit grows larger when she’s aroused makes it more erotic to press his lips against hers, tasting herself.

          “Mina! Mina, please!” Sweet, salty, an almost sea flavor washes over his tongue. She wonders if it’s possible to electrocute herself with his quirk, something he’s done to drive her wild before, but it’s probably best to not play too much. Instead Mina focuses on digging her tongue against her thong, pushing it against her clit as she rocks her head back against it.

          “Mina, I-I’m, I!” What he could say was quickly cut off but pleasure wracking her body, and then Mina’s swallowing down against the lace, sucking on the slick wetness squirting from her. She grabs onto her own hips, shaking him against her, until the wet slows to the stop.

          He’s shivering, hands clasped tight against her mouth, and she can see that he’s cut her fingers against her teeth. Kaminari manages to stare down at her, his beautiful dazed confusion evident on her face, and she grins.

          “Mina.” They turn to Shinso, shuffling the curtain with his left hand. He’s remarkably unfazed for a man with an erection straining against his jeans, a pink flush trailing from his ears to his nape, ducking under his collar. “We should go. I think store staff noticed something.”

          Hard not to, with how loud Kaminari was. Well, she’s normally loud too, so she can’t fault him too harsh with this one. Pouting softly, she points at the erect dick in place.

          “And what am I supposed to do with this?” The world dims around her, hazy, unbalanced, and Mina shakes in place. She falls to her knees, blinking fast, until her eyes squeeze shut and her throat clenches, dry, wet, and then she’s starting at Kaminari’s face, red and wet with drool wiped across his cheek.

          Back in her body, him in his. Her body feels remarkably sore, sticky, and she notes with absent humor that she’s never enjoyed wearing wet panties, and here she is, at her own hand. Kaminari stares at her still, eyes wild, pupils large and lips shaking.

          “Kaminari?” His hair falls over his eyes, cheeks flush, and then he’s pressing just the barest hint of his lips against hers.

          “Mina.” Her heart beats sharp against her chest; when was the last she’s seen him like this? When was the last she’s been so taken?

          It was, it was.

          “Mina. Kaminari.” They turn to the curtain, flaring open just at the edges. Shinso points out the back.

          “Hotel reservation in 12 minutes. Let’s go.”

          Mina grins, swinging her skirt back onto her hips, grasping her top from the floor. Kaminari yelps, not bothering to tug his top on, awkwardly shuffling out with his pants still pooled at his thighs.

          “Shinso!” Her arms come around his waist, pulling him a step back. He startles, eyes flickering between her and the curtain, and she grins.

          “I wanna switch with you next.”

          Exciting, warmth. Her limbs shake, with desire, with tenderness, and she thinks about being in his body, about feeling the little twitches of his heart, the heated grasp of his limbs. The little fondness with which he views her and Kaminari alike.

          Mina presses a kiss against his cheek.

          She must be the luckiest girl in the world.

Chapter Text

          Boar king.

          The nickname never made much sense to Byleth five years past, holding name of professor while overlooking her bickering students. Felix and Dimitri, awkward though sweet from the latter, cold and brutish from the former, classmates that were now carefully segmented by fear and lingering distrust—Felix and Dimitri, the latter chained to the floor, his lance stolen from his grip by the former, panting harshly by Byleth’s side.

          Felix and Dimitri, trading words, trading names.

          Boar king.

          It is a strange sensation, seeing Dimitri, true Dimitri, large and powerful and overbearing, a strength unknown that claws at the world around him, chained and held prisoner by his own men. By Syvlain and Felix and Ingrid, who share sorrowful looks and signs, who sigh in unison and hold their heads high, weapons higher. By Ashe and Dedue and Mercedes and Annette, who eat in silence on bloodstained tables with twisted spoons and knives. By Byleth, assigned to feed his majesty.

          Dimitri, who stood tall at the head of his army, who wears his crumpled heart with the delicacy of a maiden waiting under the moonlight, watches Byleth in his leather cuffed chains, his single eye tracing her form. She scoots down to pick up his tray, half eaten with the soup overspilling from the bowl, staring at his fallen form. Stripped off his weaponry, his armor, his dreams—his body seems almost small, bound as it is, a bare shiver through his form at the cold tiles.

          Byleth leaves a crack through the door.


          Dimitri does not speak.

          It is not a thought that should surprise Byleth given the situation—obsessed, obscene, a tortured mangled soul of a man behind chains and bars, nude except for the leather strap that protects the little modesty remaining. She waits for him every night, tray in varying states of mess, in silence. He never speaks.

          She does for him.

          “What’s happened?” Nothing.

          “Where is Edelgard? Claude? Your former classmates, where have they gone to?” Nothing.

          “Dimitri, can you hear me?” Nothing.

          “Dimitri.” Nothing at all, but the sharp inhale of breath followed by a series of hacking, his single eye squeezed shut as blood and spit and chunks of potato and leek stew spill from his mouth. Acid stings the air, his vomit spewing onto himself, the floor, some drops even making it to her form. She stares at him, at his shivering form, her former student reduced.

          “I’m going to clean you up.” Nothing. She gathers the tray, now splattered with vomit, and hurries to grab a wet rag. He hunches over, chains rattling, the single strap around his neck preventing him from ducking into himself. He would be mortified, years ago, under her careful eye.

          Now he stares at her, dull, unseeing, as she returns with a bucket and cloth. It is impossible for him to hunch so far with her hovering over, with the chains binding him so, and Byleth finds it easy to wipe down her jawline, his chest, eyes tracing the flakes of red in the otherwise murky puke. The water is unfortunately cold, and his shivering is audible this close.

          “You’re going to catch a cold like this.” Scolding, odd, when she has been serving his slump body for nearly a week. He coughs and curls his legs, but nothing more. When she wrings out the washcloth, the dirtied water hitting the bucket, his eyes drift up to hers.

          She wipes him down again, clean, though he’s only grown colder. He manages something animal, a whispered whimper, and she pauses to appraise his face. Dirtied, dusty, and she rubs tired circles into his cheeks. The cloth comes away grey and she smiles, though it cannot reach her eyes. His eyes flutter, breathing shallow, and she removes her coat to lay over his form.

          “Dimitri.” Nothing.

          She leaves the room, washcloth floating in the bucket in her hand.


          Dimitri sleeps for longer lengths throughout the days.

          He sleeps through Syvlain, through Felix, through Dedue. Ingrid grows impatient and pulls on his hair and he awakes with a wild snarl, snapping his jaws in her direction. She startles and slams the door shut behind her, and though his eyes never leave the back of her head, he returns to rest when she leaves.

          When Byleth enters the room, only the top of his hair is visible above her coat.

          Once long and loose on his form, it is now too short to cover both his head and his feet. His calves and feet are exposed to the cold air, shackles keeping them chained onto the floor, and she hums in advance. He twitches but does not move, her coat sleeves dusting the floor.

          “Dimitri.” Nothing. She stares at his hair, long, tangled, and opts instead to slide a finger along his foot. His toes fold but he does not move, content to ignore her presence.

          “Dimitri.” Again. She feels a little silly like this, running her nails along his wrinkled skin, darkened from weeks of laying in centuries of dust and dirt. His foot shakes now, caught tight by the shackles around his ankle, and she pinches his ankle.

          She expects a shout, or a growl, something distinctly inhumane as he lunges at her form, shackles shattering with the brute force in his muscles. Instead, Byleth is treated to a sound distinctly similar to a snort, and the appearance of Dimitri at the head of her jacket. His eyes follow her tickling fingers with the same apathy of any man, but the smile on his face is something she cannot recall seeing in years.

          Her hands still, stock frozen. His eyes trail up her arm, careful, shy, meeting her eyes. Something dull rolls in his body and then he’s frowning, a furrow of his brows, ducking back under her coat.

          Byleth exits the room, knowing he won’t be able to sleep until then.


          The Empire has found them.

          They’re attacked at night, a band of misfits armed with swords and spears and arrows, and though they make it through Byleth ends up with a nasty cut along her arm. Ashe replaces her in feeding duty, Dedue spends much of his time in patrol. Syvlain spends more time with her, and Felix spars a bit more gently. It is a matter of four days before Mercedes allows her to visit Dimitri, arms bandaged and healing.

          The door swings open to his pale form, her coat curled still around his body. Felix and Ingrid had tried to remove it after the battle, but Dimitri had howled and snapped at them. Frightened, angered, they had left him be.

          Byleth is glad, seeing his pale form, neck cradled against the crook of her coat.

          He needs it more than her.

          “Dimitri.” His chest rises and falls in gentle beats, face remarkably smoothed. She steps close, closer, until it is just a drop to her knees for her to loom over Dimitri’s sleeping face. Warnings from Ingrid bounce in Byleth’s head, hammering, worried; yet she places her hand on Dimitris’ head, running her gloved fingers through the messy hair.

          It is a millisecond before he is awake, eye sharp and breaths heavy, face a centimeter from hers. His teeth are bared, lips shaking. Byleth cannot do much but stare.

          She rubs his head and he sobs.

          Weeks in darkness have left a lingering odor on Dimitri, something foul and cruel, the scent of human waste and sweat, strong acidity, clings to him. Yet, Byleth finds herself much more taken by the weight of his head against her shoulder, shaking, trembling, as something so innately human manages to sliver from his shackles. Her fingers run downward through his hair, noting again that they ought to find him water to bathe in, when his voice breaks the silence.

          “losn,” is murmured against her shoulder. Byleth’s eyes widen, turning to stare at him shivering form.

          “Dimitri?” Nothing, she is sure. The same tepid silence that haunts her visits will be repeated again.

          “Loss,” Dimitri says. His voice is weak, dry, and his eye is red and puffy as it meets her eye. “You. I thought. Loss.”

          The words must take the last of his strength, for he falls forward against Byleth once more. Her hand falls from his head to his back, nude, cold. It is an eternity before she can slide his body back against the frozen tiles, careful to tug her coat around his body. Loose tears slide down his face, into his mouth, onto the floor. She wipes at them with her hand.


          She leaves the door open as she returns to bed.


          He kisses her.

          Against her hand, her wrist, her arm. The tray balanced in her other arm shakes as he licks along her, eye shut. She speaks.

          “Dimitri.” Nothing, just the barest press of teeth against her skin.

          “Dimitri.” Nothing, the tickle of hair brushing her arm, his eye fluttering open to stare upward at her.

          “Dimitri.” It closes again, and then he sighs, baring his throat. She settles the tray on the ground before wrapping both arms around his head, letting him rest against her bodice. He breaths, slow, shallow.

          “Dimitri.” Nothing, and then he’s twisting out of her hold to lick at today’s meal. Cheese, stolen from a discovered cabinet, melted over bread and with charred garlic. It smells lovely, reminiscent, something he might have liked.

          He eats it with the same slow motion she’s come to be used to.

          “Dimitri.” She stands and he stills, eye flickering between the food and her. He tried to crawl after her, but the chains only stretch so far and he stumbles, elbows and knees scraping against the floor as he yelps. Byleth startles, turning to catch him, just barely about to cup his face before he smashes into the floor.

          “Dimitri!” He growls, the vibration of his throat against her hand an oddity. Dimitri removes his chin from her hands, slow to crawl back to his food. He stares at her still, quiet, watching, until she turns again.

          “Dimitri, please. Speak to me.” It is a coax, a prayer, a plea. His eye falls from her to his bread. His arms fall to the floor, and then his legs, and then he’s bowing to her, nude except the strip of leather still clung to his groin.

          Byleth stares at his form, cold, colder, before turning to exit the room.


          Dimitri is—an enigma. Byleth thought she understood him once, a time years ago, though really only a matter of weeks to her. Dimitri was always kind, sweet, a gentle boy with charming fragility in his handling of others. He had embraced his new teacher with a startling fierceness, eager to please, even more eager to place a smile on her face.

          Dimitri then had made her want to take him into her arms, let him hide under her cloak.

          Dimitri now keeps the flame lit in her, though she finds herself unable to quite settle the disturbing darkness lingering in her mind.

          Byleth wants to help. She knows that, knows that the Blue Lions house is nothing but people who want to help, to unify their class and their nation under their beloved leader. Yet, the irony of keeping their leader in chains is lost on her. Their trust, their faith, their bonds are wavering, unable to stand the test of time without Dimitri at their centerpiece.

          He needs more. Just, Byleth does not know what she has to give him.

          “Dimitri.” These thoughts plague her as she places his tray on the floor, insistent on continuing her usual feeding schedule despite others, largely Ingrid and Felix, demand that she rest and allow another member to take over the task. Charming as their protectiveness is, Byleth finds herself unwilling to relinquish the smallest tasks that lead her to the man who she once found a shining jewel.

          He may be a little dirtied now, but she figures that’ll change after a nice bath.

          “Dimitri.” The bucket at the end of the room is empty now, waste removed in the morning. She’s been washing it, cloth rags, a broom, all used to clean up the cell used to house Dimitri. It would be better, she knows, to allow him proper rest in a proper bed, a candle to light the room and a crackling fire allowed to warm his tired form.

          Though she was his professor once, Byleth knows she lost such authority long ago. Abandoning her students would forever be an onslaught on her conscious.

          With it, goes her ability to care for Dimitri.

          “You must eat.” They’ve all noticed it, though it was Ashe who pointed it out first—the trays had been coming back less and less touched. The starving hunger in Dimitri’s eyes when Byleth had returned has since dimmed, now evident in his meals. His last tray came back half drunk, bread and cheese entirely untouched. Dedue had frowned, unable to hide his concern, and Byleth had offered to reheat the leftovers for today.

          Dimitri refuses to touch them still. Byleth frowns, unable to quell the growl building in her throat. She adores Dimitri, truly, but this behavior is both irritating and dangerous. Tucked as he is in her coat, she is unable to rattle him, though another idea comes to mind.

          Dimitri startles, a sore gasp coming from his lips when Byleth’s hands suddenly pinch at his mouth, prying it open roughly. His canines scrape against her skin, drawing blood, and though he tries to snap his jaw shut immediately, her fingers wedged against his incisors make it impossible. Grinning viciously, Byleth shoves a hardened block of bread and cheese into his mouth.

          Dimitri coughs, doubling over. Though doubt and worry swirl in Byleth, the knowledge that Dimitri hasn’t eaten properly in nearly a week fuels her onward. She cracks off another piece of bread, prying Dimitri’s mouth open again, and pressing the bread in.

          Open, shove, repeat. Open, shove, repeat. Dimitri’s rasping protests are weak, the result of self-inflicted starvation settling in, and Byleth finds it remarkably easy to sit on him for better access. She keeps one hand on his hand, constantly pinching, as another hand crumbles the bread into small morsels to fit. Crumbs coat his chin, falling onto her coat and his nude chest resting underneath.

          It isn’t until Byleth is out of bread that she releases his face, his jaw snapping shut with an audible clack.

          “Dimitri.” Warning. His eye stares up at her, glossy from unshed tears. Yet, his brows remain narrowed, unwanting, and Byleth simply sighs as she pulls upward the bowl of soup.

          “Drink.” Order, and when Dimitri bares his teeth at her, a low growling noise rising in his throat, her only response is to grasp at the collar on his neck. A startled yelp escapes him, cowed, and then she’s pried his mouth open again, a finger tickling the roof of his mouth. Dimitri shakes his head, craning his neck back, though the shackles leave him nowhere to go. Byleth pours the soup into his throat, and though he sputters and coughs and chokes, the stream only slows, refusing to stop until the bowl is empty.

          The sight of his face, wet with over spilled soup, the beginnings of tears and snot, does something to Byleth. She shifts, suddenly aware of her hips against his waist, and warm rushes to her face. Byleth stands, coughing gently, though her eyes refuse to stray from Dimitri’s scrunched face, wary at her hands.

          Trust, and desire, and five years of disbelief at her death. It’s no wonder he’s wary still.

          And yep, the memory of him lapping at her hand spirals forward.

          “I’m going.” Dimitri’s head snaps upward, mouth opening as though to speak. Whatever he could say is lost in a series of coughs, his chest heaving.

          By the time his choking quiets, the door had slammed shut behind Byleth.


          The sounds of chains rattling becomes commonplace during feeding time for the following two days. Growling turns to whimpering, properly cowed from the rough treatment. Guilt and resentment tugging at Byleth had turned to satisfaction as his trays began to return empty, even without her collecting and feeding, and even Felix has a reluctant comment on how Dimitri’s threatening snaps and hisses had begun to wane.

          It’s a step forward, even if at times she feels like she’s taken a step back. No professor would ever be able to treat their students so cruelly.

          Byleth is no longer professor.

          It is only that fact that keeps her shoulders at ease as she unlocks Dimitri’s chains, only to retie them together behind his back. He hisses, something vile under his breath, and her hand tugs not-so-gently at the chains in reply. His head is bowed, throat bobbing as he swallows, wrists rotating gently as she secures the lock in place. Byleth doesn’t bother securing his feet together, instead tugging sharply at the collar of her coat. Dimitri startles, head turning to her, and it is the opportune moment to snap the leash on his collar.

          “Dimitri.” Byleth stands now, satisfied as she tugs on his leash. Dimitri startles forward, knees catching, though he’s unable to still himself with his arms tied behind him. He falls against her legs, in a perfect position to snap his jaws at her, bite through her armor to rip through a chunk of flesh.

          Instead, his mouth is shut, thinned to a line.


          “Good boy.” The endearment slips out accidentally, and though Byleth’s teeth click shut immediately afterward, the widening of his eyes at her words is well worth it. His chin quivers for a moment, something bubbling in his throat, though when it finally comes loose he offers nothing more than silence. Byleth stares at his sullen form, seemingly so small under the draping of her coat, and she tugs at the lease again.

          It is a shaky moment before Dimitri manages to stand on his feet. His legs, unused to such weight after weeks chained to the floor, collapse under him time and time again. Byleth ends up supporting his weight as he pants, sweat beading along his face, mouth pulled into a trembling frown. Byleth takes a step back, intent on allowing Dimitri to move forward by himself, but it simply causes him to fall back against her arms.

          His legs, shaking with exhaustion, have finally given out. It’s only Byleth’s grasp around his shoulders that keep him from hitting the floor.

          “Dimitri,” Byleth murmurs. It’s soft, softer than any tone she’s taken with her former students in the past two weeks, though she can’t picture any other to address the quivering form clinging to her arms. “Dimitri, sit.”

          His legs fully collapse under him and he falls to the ground on his side, grunting. Byleth grabs the chains tying his arms together, and, knowing the inevitable scolding Ingrid will deliver to her, snaps them apart. Dimitri jerks, a gasp startled out of him, and then his arms and slapping the floor as he makes a hasty crawl away. It’s awkward, slow, a crumpling attempt that spans half a meter before he falls to his side again, gasping.

          “Dimitri, sit.” It’s not so gentle this time, and he stills in place, arms below him. She waits, letting the last length of the leash fall to the ground, raising her hands into the air. Dimitri stares at her, eyes blinking warily, and then he’s prying himself back off the floor, onto his knees.

          His eyes are glassy, exhaustion tugging at his lids. The lighting near the door makes the past month’s events all the more prevalent, from the sagging bags under his eyes to the sullen skin where his muscles once were, now thinning and frail from months of disuse. His lips are dry and cracked, though him finally submitting to proper meals has improved his skin enough to make it less pale. When her eyes finally return to his face, she sees that he’s biting on his lip.

          “Dimitri.” Silence, though his eyes flicker up.

          “Let’s try this again tomorrow, okay?” The words bring about a pang of nostalgia in her, memories of lecture halls and joyful students suddenly swarming her mind. It seems only a few months ago that she ran her hand through Dimitri’s hair, praising him for his vast improvements in his lessons, the dedication that made him so charming.

          The guttural noise from Dimitri is neither an acceptance nor denial, and yep, Byleth finds a smile pinching at her lips. She stands, uncertain whether or not Ingrid or Felix will return to shackle Dimitri back to his previous form, or allow him to rest unchained. After a week of proper meals, however, Byleth finds that he deserves it.

          Proper rest, in a proper bed, with warm food and clothing.

          They’ll make it there, she’s sure of it.

          Byleth adjusts her clothing, preparing to leave, just as Dimitri stumbles forward again. His crawl is unsteady, clumsy as a newborn, and the comparison is enough to freeze Byleth in place. When he finally comes close enough to raise his head against her, height reaching her thighs, she wonders if he’s going to bite straight through her tights.

          Instead, he butts his head against her hand.

          “Dimitri?” What could be an answer is lost in a sigh as he rubs his head. His hair is still sticky with dust and oils, knots catching in her fingers. Careful, she presses her hand against his scalp.

          Dimitri sighs, shoulders falling, and Byleth feels her heart catch.

          Oh. Oh.

          It is too soon before she has to withdraw her hand, the wavering peace shattered as she takes another step towards the door. Dimitri makes no sound, nor move, to follow her, eye simply tracking her footsteps. When she reaches the exit, the last thing she sees before sliding the door shut is the slow travel of his eye up to her face.

          He’s smiling.


          It takes four days of—not lessons, just, attempts. Four days of pulling and holding and just breathing in place, heads pressed against heads as Dimitri steadies himself against Byleth. Felix did have angry words about Dimitri’s released chains, but Dedue and Sylvain alike swore on Dimitri’s side, protesting his ability to rest in peace in his cell, especially given Byleth’s plan. It was a lengthy shouting match, but Byleth emerged victorious.

          It’s how she can pull Dimitri to his feet, arms bound together with a simple chain, the leash tied to his collar. She smiles at him, and though he doesn’t smile back, his eye does seem to soften.

          She’s still not sure if it was her imagination or delusion that had Dimitri smiling at her those days past, but the flicker of the image remains firmly in her head.

          She wants to see him smile again.

          “Dimitri.” A tug, gentle, his feet making slow steps forward. Byleth doubts he could run even after daily exercises, certain that his sore legs would have given out long ago. Yet, that stubborn determination that kept him afterhours during school persists still, and a proud grin spreads on her face when he manages to straighten to full height. It’s funny, how she knows he’s taller than she, yet he seems so small in her coat.

          The rest of the class is out today, patrolling the area. Byleth had asked them to, not wanting to parade Dimitri around more than he has been. Annette had been especially enthusiastic about them taking a day to themselves, prompting a light smile. He takes slow, stumbling steps behind her as they pad out of the room. The light of the hall overtakes him for a moment, his eye scowling shut as he stills, and Byleth waits.

          When his feet refuse to budge again, she gives a harsher tug at the leash. This time his eye flies open, surprised evident, though his legs do follow her. The bare scrap of fabric hanging at his hips swings as he moves, clearly not intended for any actual movement.

          It is an arduous process to make it to the stairs, and an even more tiring one to climb them. Byleth is tempted to grasp at Dimitri, carry him herself, but the stubborn grit of his jaw prevents her from drawing any closer. Instead, her tugs get rougher, his breathing harder, and slowly his feet rise from step to step.

          By the time they emerge from the basement, Dimitri’s legs are shaking, sweat dripping from his face along his neck in a line down his chest. His face is flushed, mouth open in pants, all sighs of needing rest. Yet, his eye refuses to lower, staring at Byleth still.

          She smiles.

          “Good boy.”

          Praise, and pets, have become her best reward for him. Dimitri’s lips twitch at the remark, not a smile, though not a frown. Byleth lets him linger a moment longer before tugging again, insistent on having them reach the destination before the others return.

          The process across the hall is remarkably more steady than the trek up the stairs, though Dimitri’s certainly red from ears to shoulder by the time they arrive to closed doors. Byleth appraises him, her dirty cloak still tossed on his shoulders, before pushing the door open. Warmth radiates through her, and she steps in.

          The bath is clean, full of clear, warm water. It had been difficult to secure clean water since the war had broken out, but a farm overrun by bandits had luckily left them with a running bathroom. After nearly every member of Blue Lions had a chance to cleanse themselves, Byleth had decided to take back her portion of water to share with Dimitri. It was Mercedes, with soft eyes and gentle hands, who offered to help her. Ashe and Dedue were only natural in assisting.

          Clean bath, warm water. A dirty boy, chained still, staring at the scene before him.

          Byleth would laugh if it weren’t so terribly tragic.

          “Dimitri.” His head turns towards her way, a grunt in his throat. Byleth ties the leash around her arm twice, securing it, before stepping close to grab at the chain keeping his arms tied. She tugs him with it, pulling him careful steps closer to the bath, before stopping just as they hit the tub.

          “I need to take my coat back,” it’s an apology, must be, with the upset knitting of Dimitri’s brows. Still, something persists in him, and he lowers his shoulder and head to Byleth. She strips him of the coat easily, tossing it to the floor, before pulling off her own shirt. A startled jostle of Dimitri’s chain reveals his shocked face, pink rising to his cheeks.

          “What? I can’t wash you without getting wet.” Humorous, well-intended. Byleth laughs as Dimitri shuffles his feed, arms still in front. He looks younger, back to when they first met and he had clasped his hands together, swinging to and fro. Shy, endearingly so, and she had wanted to shield him from the world.

          The humor dries in her lips.

          Byleth shimmies off her skirt and undergarments with no further words. Her boots are tossed against her coat, equally dirty, before grasping the scrap of fabric keeping Dimitri’s decency. He yelps, legs pressing together, though there’s nothing for him to keep clenched. Byleth snaps the leather strap downwards, a shy whimper slipping from Dimitri.

          He’s, well, large. And equally dirty there as the rest of his body. Furious pink colors Dimitri, no longer from exertion, prompting a chuckle to rise within Byleth. She loosens the chains around his arms until they fall to the floor, pooling at his feet, and then she grasping the leash and pulling him into the tub.

          The water is pleasantly warm to her skin and Byleth sighs. She’s needed this, peace, remembrance, a moment to relax her mind from the grating nostalgia gripping her form every time Dimitri stumbled into her arms. He’s no longer her student, the blue lions no longer her class.

          She’s Byleth, mercenary, criminal. Another life in war.

          She just has to remember that.

          A ripple in the water causes her to turn. Dimitri fidgets, his shoulders drawn up, and Byleth could laugh at how his eye traces the drifting dirt from his body into the water. As though shocked with his own state, he tremors in the water, then pinches his lip as more dirt comes off with the movement. Byleth does laugh this time, prompting him to turn to her, face upset.

          “You haven’t bathed in weeks. Relax.” Weeks, months, maybe more. Guilt stings at Byleth, though it passes just as quickly. Dimitri nods at her, placated, hands clenching under the water. Byleth turns to them, only to end up looking at his groin again. He really should have been cleaned earlier, especially considering he was still being fed and producing waste.

          A dry cough draws her eyes back up. Dimitri’s red again, eye carefully pointing away. She grins, arching her back, aware of how his eye drifts back to stare at her bare nipples before snapping away again.


          All teasing aside, however, he really does need to be cleaned.

          “Dimitri, head down. I’m going to wash your hair.” Theoretically, Byleth knows he can care for himself. He certainly never required her bathing assistance back in school, but then again, he hadn’t need walking or talking lessons either. It is so much easier to coax him with soft words and touches, letting him relax against her hands as his eye flutters shut.

          She wants him to trust again.

          Dimitri’s hair, as usual, is sticky and knotted. Byleth palms a mixture of crushed herbs and tea leaves into her hand, rubbing them along the oily strands. Dimitri bends his face further, nearly to the surface of the water, as Byleth’s hands make progress drawing out the dirt in his hair. She scratches his scalp with her nails, careful to pick at dry skin, and he shivers beneath her.

          It is slow, gentle work, ripples of water shaking as she goes to her knees for better reach at the back of his neck. The collar is still on him, leash simply floating in the water, and she digs her hand under it to pull at loose strands stuck to his back. A whimper slips from his lips and her hands still.

          “Am I hurting you?” His shoulders quake, from pain or anxiety she does not know, though his head shakes no. Byleth frowns, worry flickering within her, and she drags her hands up his head with remarkable gentleness this time. Her hands draw up and down his scalp, digging into the numerous knows in his hair, wetting every strand with the cleanser. After declaring him sufficiently soaped up, she circles his ears.

          “Dimitri, can you bend back for me?” Dimitri murmurs something, some noise, and then he’s turning back, letting her hands drag him back down into the water. Byleth notes, with some smug satisfaction, that his eye has fallen shut, features smooth. Relaxed. Cared for.

          “Good boy.” A twitch in his brow, the smoothing of his shoulders.

          Byleth cleans his hair in silence, admiring how his blonde locks come out smooth and shiny, the darker hues literally washed away. He looks even younger now, breathing deep, chest rising and falling against the water as she runs her hands over his hair. It is almost a shame when she is done, letting his locks fall from her fingers.

          “Dimitri,” his eye cracks open, nearly irritated, and she grins, “take a deep breath. I need to wash your face.”

          It’s not quite as easy the second time around, mostly because Dimitri breaths into her hand at the wrong time and ends up licking the soap concoction Mercedes had found. He ends up coughing into her hands, eye pinched, a trickle of soap seeping into his eyelid. By the time they manage to finish washing his face, they’re both a little exhausted, panting lightly.

          “Alright, let’s get on with this. Turn around!” The sullen expression on Dimitri’s face is a remarkable shift from the blank one she’s come to known, and the generosity of it warms her heart. He shifts in place, one hand coming to the tub edge to steady himself. When he does turn however, he stills in place, realization creeping in.


          Marks she’s never seen before.

          There’s a litter of scars along his back, skinny lines were there must have once nothing but open wounds and blood, blood running down his back. There is barely a space between the end of one scar and another, harsh and brutal, clearly injuries meant to last.

          Byleth opens her mouth, uncertain, certain, only to click it shut at the sight of Dimitri’s fingers curled against the tub, hard enough to crack. She stares at him a moment longer, before shaking her head.

          Five years past, he’s no longer her student.

          It’s hard to remember when it’s so much easier to forget.

          “Let me wash your back.” Placating, promising. Dimitri’s hand doesn’t let go of the tub, though it does loosen its grip. The wash is silent, nearing discomfort, just the motion of Byleth dragging her hands up and down Dimitri’s tense back. He doesn’t loosen until she moves to his side, where he squirms and nearly giggles. Amusement flashes by her face.

          “Oh, right. Forgot you’re ticklish.” It’s probably a little mean when she chooses to run her fingers up and down his sides, causing a wild bit of trashing and laughter to burst from him. The water ripples and crashes against the sides of the tub, overflowing to splash on the floor, finally causing Byleth to still her hands. Dimitri heaves, breaths a desperate tremble as he tries to still his laughter, and she finds herself more content to continue.

          “Turn around.” The stink eye he shoots her is a treasure considering the undeniable smile stretched on his face. Hard not to when he was cackling just a moment before in her arms. Still, victory flares in Byleth’s stomach at the expression, and she places a hand against Dimitri’s arm. When he doesn’t tense at her grip, her fire doubles.

          “I got to wash your front now.” Obedient, loyal, nothing more than a wet dog nipping at her hands. Byleth runs soapy fingers down his front, along his arms, more conscious now to apply amble pressure. There’s scars here, too, though she’s grown startlingly numb to the sight of them. At the very least they seem clean, disinfected.

          Dimitri’s eye droops again as she moves along his body, gently tracing the outline of his ribs down to his stomach. Dirt had settled along the cracks of his skin, made by folding down on tense muscles, and she scratches a little harder at those areas to remove the dirt. The water they’ve soaked in has long gone murky grey with the mass of dust coming off.

          It isn’t until Byleth prods her hands downward that she remembers.

          Dimitri’s half-hard member pokes through the water. Byleth stares at it, feeling something uncertain, something hungry, her eyes flickering up to Dimitri’s face. He’s flushed, light pants shaking his jaw, but his eye remains shut, his head reared off to the side. She could almost mistake him as sleeping.

          He’s not.

          Byleth grabs his cock.

          Dimitri’s eye flies open, a croaking yelp emerging from his throat as his legs kick out. In the small tub, they smack against the porcelain edges, and Byleth takes one hand to steady him as the other scratches along his scrotum. A whine, heavy, confused, slips through his mouth as he stares at her, dizzying haze evident in his face. His stomach curls in a weak attempt to sit up, though he is unable to dislodge Byleth’s hand.

          She palms more soap onto her fingers, and returns to cleaning his genitals.

          The moans slip through with more frequency now, Dimitri’s one hand choosing to grip the edge of the tub, the other tugging at Byleth’s wrist. Weak, almost laughably so, something cruel flickering at her. Wasn’t Dimitri supposed to become strong, so unbearably strong that no one could face him? Wasn’t that why the Blue Lions had become so cowardly, so vicious, as to abandon their so-called leader into a dungeon, locked up in chains, a glittering present for any stumbling foe?

          Byleth drags her nails along the crease of Dimitri’s ass and thighs. He squeals, high, and kicks out his legs again, bowing them at the knees. It does nothing but lock Byleth’s hand into place.

          Warmth flushes Byleth’s face at the high whines and gasps shaking Dimitri’s body. It’s funny, still, the reminder at he is so tall, so muscular, powerful and bulky, and yet here is still, shivering cowed at her feet, unable to do anything but squeal and quiver under her hand. It must be cruelty, must be vengeance, something beyond Byleth herself that convinces her to slide from his ass to his cock, a single finger pressing onto his head.

          The shout he echoes is a word.

          Byleth finds her hand frozen, eyes widening, as the murmuring sobs slipping from Dimitri’s throat begins to form more than rambled syllables in a string, now with proper spacing, gasping, a desire to be heard. Her hand slows as it scratches lines along his thighs. Dimitri cries.

          “Les… hnn… hah, ah, rof…” slips from his mouth. Words, what could be words, the first from him that Byleth can recall since that night weeks ago when he had sobbed into her shoulders.

          She slides her other hand upward from his stomach to his throat. When she angles her finger into the collar, crooking his face upward, she can see the line of drool spilling from his lips along his chin, dripping into the dirtied bath water below. His glassy eye stares, unfocused, as his mouth tries to form feeble words.

          “Dimitri.” Order. Desperation. The quickening of her hand against his dick.

          “Dimitri.” Harsh, insatiable. She jostles the collar, making water splash onto the floor, and he moans, long and breathless.

          “Leth… By… Leth…”


          Dimitri’s calling for her.

          Something heavy settles in the burning pit lighting Byleth on fire, and her hand tightens its grip on him. Dimitri shivers, teeth clacking together as he bares his neck forward. Needy. Confused.


          He wants this.

          Hungry, angry, red hot fury igniting in Byleth’s veins make her press forward, hand dropping the collar to simply grasp at his throat, tossing his head back. His gasp and resounding moan is a vibration against her fingers, submissive, obedient. She fingers the length of his cock in a reward and his legs spasm, wrapped as they are around her arm. It kicks the tub, causing it to creep and shift along the tile floor.

          She wants this.

          Tears, drool, the mixture of snot and bathwater dripping along his face. Dirtied water blocking her view of him, his shaking legs, the quivering folds of his stomach bent in half as he tries to curl. His single eye, glassy, highlighted by the flush of pink sweeping his ears to his shoulders.

          She wants this.


          The door bursts open, familiar red hair sweeping into view. Byleth reacts immediately, jumping back from Dimitri, aware of the splashing sound of bathwater hitting the floor, one hand digging along her clothes immediately to secure a grip on a dagger. Alone, they were supposed to be alone—she doesn’t have time for intruders!

          Armed and ready, Byleth lunges, her teeth bared, muscular scarred body bare. She’s killed more in worse situations.

          Except it’s only Sylvain who’s standing at the door, breathing heavily, Mercedes peering behind his shoulder.

          “Byleth! Are you okay?” Shouting. Why is Sylvain shouting? Byleth hisses, running a hand along her wet head, dropping the dagger back along her abandoned clothes.

          “Fine. What is it?” Cool, simple. Sylvain’s shoulders drop, mixture of exhaustion and irritation flicking by his eyes, before he settles back on Byleth’s nudity. Unexpected pink highlighted his cheeks, and then he’s taking a shaky step back, ducking behind Mercedes.

          “O-oh, you’re naked.” Byleth snorts. Chill and capable as ever. She’s still not certain how she’s managed to strike fear in Sylvain’s heart, given how he normally is with women, but perhaps the title and authority of professor persists still.

          “We heard thrashing,” Mercedes chimes in. Her eyes, unlike Sylvain’s, have yet to stray from Dimitri’s gasping form in the tub. Their dirty water has clearly coated the floor, and Byleth sighs, kicking her coat and clothing over to mop at it with her feet.

          “We’re fine. Just cleaning. He’s really dirty.”

          An accusation, a statement, all in one. Mercedes smiles, hand tightening on Sylvain, and then they’re gone from the room. The door is open behind him, leaving Byleth and Dimitri nude as cold air sweeps into the bathroom. She looks over at him, at his drooping eye, the glimpse of his teeth biting his lip.


          “Let’s finish up. Don’t want to catch a cold.”

          She’s had enough.


          Clothing. Clothing, and food, and, for goddess sake, an actual bed. It’s an argument that’s dragged on for too long, furious resentment building in her blood. They were her students, once, and now they refuse to budge on even the simplest matters.

          “He is a beast.” Felix crosses his arms, uncomfortable, unwilling. Ingrid nods, equally fierce, her hands clenched on the tabletop.

          “He’s dangerous, professor. It’s too much.” Byleth grits her teeth. Professor, always professor, only when they feel the title is suitable in discussion. Professor, only when they want to dangle power before her nose, professor, only to draw pity out of her.

          Professor, as though she’s been anything but, watching them torment someone they once called friend.

          “And what? Chaining him, starving him, leaving him to sit in his waste—is that going to make him human again? Is that it?” Fury, righteous fury, born alight is glowing in her eyes. They must tell, fingers tightening, a swallow from Ashe. Fear, and anger, quelled by natural instincts.

          Run, it says, and they cannot. Glued to their seats, cowering under her breath.

          “We want him to heal.” Mercedes, stubborn in the wrong moments, her eye always watching. Too kind for war, too hardened for much else. Byleth laughs.

          “Dust and dirt? Is that all we have to heal now?” A jab, poorly disguised. Annette swallows, her hand coming to grasp at Mercedes. Mercedes head falls, properly surrendering, though her eye stays trained on Byleth’s form. She doesn’t care.

          They can all stare at her.

          She’s not the one who turned their leader into a beast, a walking display, an animal stuck in chains and dirt.


          “Bed and food.”

          “Bed, and food, and clothes.”

          Orders, demands, lectures. Her voice rings over the table, palms down on the foggy glass. Commander. Professor.

          “I will not sit here as you turn your former classmate into a beast.”

          It is Felix, stubborn, fearful. Felix, who grits his teeth, who claws his hands, who digs his nails into the edge of the chair, shoulders squared. Felix.

          “He was already a beast.” Byleth stares at him, cold, unflinching. The table quiets, still, watching their eyes. Felix is the one to droop first, eye flickering downward, frustration and indignation shivering his arms. Dedue’s eyes dart to her, waiting, patient.

          “No more so than people willing to leave him in a dungeon.” The flinch across the table is only momentarily satisfying.

          “Bed, and food, clothing and rest. That’s all.” Silence, resignation, fear. The knowledge that she was their professor, once, is enough. Byleth stands, kicking her chair back, letting her gaze sweep the table.

          “I would do the same for any of you.”


          A battle breaks out in the Southeast.

          It is a mistake to head out. Partly because Byleth’s torn her arm muscle defending Ashe from a sudden rush of bandits, partly because she’s not prepared to see a familiar face on the other side of the battlefield.

          Claude’s eyes glitter in the dark.

          It is an unspoken promise, a thirst for blood. He is hers, and she is his; it is easy enough to break off from the others to dart to the side where he waits, floating in the air. His eyes see all, the chaos occurring on the grounds, the gashes marking Mercedes arms, her hands outstretched to provide healing and protection. Annette screams behind her, eyes alight with fear, fury. The sight of Dedue destroying remnants of his army must hurt.

          An arrow clips her ear, just barely, drawing a small bit of blood. She stares, grip on her sword tightening, as he fastens another arrow.

          A game.

          A hunting game. He’s the prey.

          Familiarity, in combat, in strategy, in memory of gentler times with Jeralt, fuels her steps. The arrows get flicked out of place, and the advancing shout of Sylvain and Dedue at the front of her army is not enough to placate the thundering of her heart in her ears. Every step is a bit closer, every breath a bit stronger. It is only a matter of time before she’s grasped Claude out of the sky, hand digging into his arm as she drags him along the ground, wyvern screeching noisily as she grips its master.

          He looks good, bruised and bloody, cocky smirk never leaving his face.

          Until it does, his bow dropping to the ground besides him, and Byleth’s got an arm wrapped around her waist.

          “Hey, teach.” Low, secretive. A whisper, and her arm catches him. She’s still got the sword of creator in her hand, ready, wary.

          Claude smiles.

          “How’s Dimitri?” Her hand tightens.

          His wyvern barrels into her side, and then Byleth’s coughing, racking up spit and blood, spinning back onto her feet. It’s too late to catch him, his laughter ringing in the air, delightfully light for a war scene. His eyes soften as they catch hers, floating so gently along the ground. She could swing her sword still, this close, and puncture him through the throat.

          She doesn’t. She can’t.

          He knows. Knows too much, probably, based off the small pouch he tosses her way. She catches it, wary, all too aware of his history with poisons. It must be evident on her face, the way another laugh stretches his body, his eyes crinkling in dangerous delight.

          A game.

          A hunting game.

          She’s his prey.

          The bag contains a mixture of what seems to be teas, herbs, a small vial of oil, another that smells of nothing, but looks faintly purple. She shakes it, watches the bubbles swirl in the vial, arching an eyebrow up.

          “What?” Claude smiles down to her, arms around his wyvern. It screeches, clearly a warning, based off the sudden storming of footsteps echoing on the battlefield. Byleth’s team will be unable to catch his, not at the rate that they move, and she settles for knowing that Claude is no further along revolution as she.

          Edelgard. Edelgard is furthest of them all.

          “I heard a rumor,” unlikely. He must have spied on them. “That his highness has been unwell. I prepared a present for him, just a little peacetime gift for his health. That’s all.”

          She doubts it. Byleth tightens her grip on the vial, feeling the glass pinch under her fingers. She could shatter them here, now.

          “Dimitri’s the fiercest fighter on your side, sans you, teach. You should really help him out.” The smile that lingers on his face is more genuine now. It’s softer by the edges, sweeter in a nostalgic way. Byleth wonders, sometimes, if Claude ever gets tired of pretending.

          “I’d like to see him soon.”

          He must.

          “Give him my regards.” Then he’s off into the air, gaze sharp, pulling his troops back. Byleth waits on the ground below, hands clutching the bag still. When her troops make their way to her, concern about the trail of broken arrows and the trail of blood from her ear to neck, she tucks the bag along her pocket.



          A vial of oil.


          One long vial of something purple. It doesn’t smell like anything at all.


          Annette bakes her scones to place with the tea. Mercedes had offered to help, but Byleth had said that they only needed two. It’s been a while, a long time really, since she’s had a chance to properly speak with the other members of the class. Day in and day out, most of their conversations have been with Felix, Ingrid, occasionally Sylvain—and they tend to end up shouting.

          Annette doesn’t shout, doesn’t scream, just smiles and hums as she presses the dough flat against a tray.

          “Is he alright?” Careful, quiet. On tiptoes, shattered glass, always a little meeker by her fierce teacher’s side. Byleth nods, hand sweeping the dirty boards, stray flour marking them white.

          “He’ll be fine.” Unlikely. Dimitri will be better, Byleth will ensure that, but she can’t guarantee anything more than the little improvements they’ve been making. Even so, there’s still that five years gap between them. Five years where he had once been a smiling, glittering diamond, now trapped in binds his own friends had placed around him.

          Her fingers tighten on a rolling pin, and she drops it to the board.

          Annette flinches.

          They wait in silence, eyes on the slow roasting oven. The fire underneath crackles as it heats the iron tray, the scones slow to warm and rise. It is hot just standing here, a drip of sweat forming on Annette’s nape.

          She swallows.

          She speaks.

          “I’m sorry.”

          Byleth turns to her, eyes widening. Annette’s hand grasps at her skirt, wrinkling the fabric, and though she swallows, her voice continues.

          “You-you were right. We were treating Dimitri, like, like,” her voice cracks, eyes slipping shut as the beginnings of tears pool at her lids, “a beast.”

          “It’s not your fault.” It isn’t, not really, not with the creeping manner Annette’s taken to supporting Byleth. Not with the careful way she and Ashe speak about Dimitri with Dedue, not with the slow manner in which she plates his food with Mercedes, careful to create meals that he’ll like. Not with the burning spirit in her eyes when Byleth had made her argument for Dimitri, quiet, but wanting.

          “It is!” Annette protests, and now she’s crying, really, tears down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have let them do that! I should have said something!”

          Should, and could, and would.

          Byleth takes Annette into her arms.

          “I could have stopped them.” She couldn’t have. “I could have helped Dimitri earlier!” Unlikely.

          “I could have tried.”


          Byleth’s arms tighten around Annette, sighing as her hand rises to pat at her head. She’s never been good with this—emotional displays, cries for help. There’s no calming the heavy guilt made prominent in the blue lions after Dimitri had begun a path to recovery, but only after Byleth had begun to disobey their rules, forcing Dimitri back into the light. The dawning realization that their chains were nothing more than a flimsy excuse to protect themselves is a crime within itself, and their morale has been nothing but fragile as a result of it.

          They need to see Dimitri, know Dimitri, rely on his forgiveness.

          He needs to return to battle.

          “It’s true,” Byleth sighs, and Annette stiffens in her arms as sobs wrack her body. “You could have tried to do more. But Annette, honestly,” she sways to and fro with the girl, remembering the silly songs Annette used to hum in the greenhouse, “you’re trying now. You’re trying to help now.”

          Byleth stares at the small bowl of leftover dough, too much to fit into one tray. It’s a perfectly round surface, rolled and mashed and rolled again.

          “Isn’t that proof that you’re doing something?”

          Annette sobs through the baking time, and the first round of scones are burnt. Byleth laughs about it, prompting another round of tears from Annette, but she’s smiling this time, red-rimmed eyes and snot pooling at her lips. She wipes her face onto her sleeves, sniffling, when they fit the remaining dough on a second tray.

          “I’m glad,” she says, when the second tray comes out golden, topping the scones with a layer of honey.

          “Glad?” Byleth hums.

          “I’m glad you chose us, professor. I don’t—I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

          A sinking stone. Annette’s smile is soft, fragile, as she carefully pulls two scones onto a flower print plate.

          Dimitri would likely still be mad, mind rile with chained up anger and fury, clawing at his walls. His friendships, his bonds, with Sylvain, Felix, Ingrid—would they survive this test of time? Dedue, Ashe, Mercedes… Annette. They would support him, wouldn’t they?

          Wouldn’t they?

          Byleth places the kettle of water over the flames. The tea tray is rusted and dusty from disuses from years left alone, but Ashe had offered to help clean it for the occasion. It was Ingrid who found the kettle.

          Dedue who asked Byleth to plan the affair.

          “Chamomile was his favorite.”

          Was. Is. A life without Byleth, where she had never awoken, where she had chosen another class. She could be in the sky right now, riding a wyvern, watching Claude spin long tales with the truth carefully seeded in a flimsy line or two. She could be in the ground, holding the bloodied glove of Edelgard, pressing gentle kisses along her white hair. She could be holding Flayn and Cyril close, shoulders high, protecting their tired eyes from the truth of war.

          She is here, with Dimitri, with Annette, in a kitchen that’s two degrees too warm.

          This must be right.

          The kettle rings, shrill in the air. Water is ready.


          Dimitri needs her.


          Chamomile tea, honeyed scones, a small dribble of preserved orange peels on the side. Nothing so glamorous as the three tier towers that used to adorn most of her tea times, but Byleth finds that this isn’t so bad. Something simple, something sweet.

          Dimitri’s eyes flicker to her face, something near a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

          He’s missed her, misses her still, every mission away from her leaves him needier the next they meet. Her coat, now washed, rests around his shoulders still, and he grasps it close to his body even as he stands to greet her at the door. The shirt and pants he wears are too tight for his body, remnants of old clothing worn once by students decades ago, but it was better than nothing.

          His hair is honey yellow and soft, curled around his face. Byleth smiles, inching her way to the table set in the middle of the room. A creaky table, unsteady chairs. Good enough for her, for him.

          “Good boy,” she praises, curling a strand of his hair and rubbing his cheek. He does smile at this, a little curved thing. Precious.

          He drinks the tea in usual silence, though his eyes dart from his cup to her time and time again. Byleth knows he’s waiting, uncomfortable, left leg bobbing against the floor in a steady rhythm. It’s going to hit the table eventually, and she steadies an arm on it in preparation.

          “Dimitri.” The leg stills, his cup nearly dropped as he tips his head up. His hands clench. Unclench. She waits.

          Talk to me, she wants to say. Wants to cup his face, stare into his soul, decipher the oddities that compel her to him so. Is he a man? Is he a beast? The odd configuration of the two, mute, unwilling, a curled child hidden behind bars of rage and resentment and fear, sits so far from her.

          She wants to hear him speak.


          His leg bobs again. It does jostle the table this time, nearly spilling his tea, and he yelps. It is a hasty hand that slams down onto the surface on his side, harshly enough that the table startles even with her arm on her end, and the tea and scones fly out of their vessels to spill onto his clothing, her coat.

          They stare at the mess for a moment, mouths open, uncomprehending. Dimitri sniffles, drawing Byleth back to his face. His cheeks are red, his nose pinched, one eye pink.

          Twice now she’s made her students cry in her presence. Byleth could scream.

          “Dimitri, it’s okay!” She says, quickly grabbing at loose rags to dab at his clothing. There’s no salvaging the scones broken to the floor, unfortunately, and Byleth isn’t sure how much more chamomile Claude had given her. The priority here is the redness in Dimitri’s face, the brimming tears threatening to spill.

          It’s instinctive.

          Byleth presses her lips to his.

          He stiffens under her, hands tightening, as she simply kisses him. No tongue, no wetness, nothing but the barest pressure of her against him. When she pulls away, her cheeks are wet, his tears already running downward.

          “Dimitri.” Careful. Simple. He’s trying, he is, the smallest beginning of a smile trembling on his face. Is he scared? Of her?

          Of himself?


          Stunned silence overtakes her at the throaty word. Sorry. Sorry. Of all things to say, of all things to utter, the one word breaking the terrible muteness hanging over Dimitri is sorry. An apology, so sincere, made even more so by the beginning of a trail of snot.



          “It’s fine. We have more tea and scones.” Lies, she knows it, and so does he. They’re in war, lack of materials, lack of food. The fact that their soup is nothing more than watery carrots and potatoes is clue enough.

          She shouldn’t have taken the preserved oranges. Should have left them right back in the jar.



          “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry”

          Endless, maddening. Byleth could fume with how the words crawl up her arms, encircle her neck, pull tight at her throat. Sorry, sorry, sorry for what? For who? Why?

          Weeks of silence, for this? For unwanted apologizes? For unwarranted mannerisms?

          Anger pulls her flush against him, his eye widening, lips opening just slightly. It’s—irrational. Irritating. Unbearable.

          She presses her lips against him, harder, wet, her tongue sliding into his mouth.

          Dimitri startles, hands immediately pulling at her clothing, fingers digging into her arms. He gasps, pulling back, only to be followed by Byleth nipping his lips, biting at his gums. A broken moan slips from his mouth, flushing his wet cheeks further pink, what could be a sorry eaten up. She spits into his mouth, feels his throat bob, and gnaws at his tongue.

          It’s not until she draws blood, digging her teeth into his bottom lip hard enough to break the skin, that she steps back. He’s panting, flush, and she can feel him pressed against her thigh. Wanting. Needing.

          Sorry her ass.

          “Dimitri.” Spit. Spat. He shivers, obedient, waiting. His neck bares up, letting her fixate on that damnable collar still tight around his throat.

          Ingrid said he refused to remove it.

          Byleth thinks she knows why.

          “Beg me.” He trembles, hands surely dragging holes into her clothing. Byleth finds she doesn’t care. “Beg me, Dimitri. Tell me. With your words.”

          Human. He’s human, not a beast. Not a mute mutt.

          Dimitri shakes, flush fading, lips gnashing together. Byleth stares up at him, knows he’s taller, knows he’s stronger. He could crush her. He should crush her.


          She leaves the room, him, dirtied with tea and crumbs and smelling of chamomile. Her hand rubs against her thigh, tight, digging red circles.

          Chamomile tea, honeyed scones, the remnants of Dimitri in her mouth.


          There’s enough chamomile for one more tea time.

          She shouldn’t. Dimitri trusts her, trusts her enough to bare himself to her, hang her coat from his shoulders. He trusts her enough to wait until she’s in bed, watch her descend from the stairs after a battle, waiting. Wanting.

          He wants this.

          She opens the purple vial and spills it into the tea.


          They drink. They eat, lunch of sour bread and watery soup. They would talk, if Dimitri were not so cowed under her gaze, unable to meet her eyes. His own drift to her breasts at least twice, and she could snap the table with irritation.

          Nothing happens.

          She breaks the glass tube and throws it into the trash.



          Cooking with Mercedes. Pathing up time with Annette, helping her sew back together the torn ends of their uniforms. Sparring with Felix, getting sweat in her eyes, it in his. Speaking to Ingrid, debating about the morality of their actions. Training Ashe, watching him shoot, knowing he’s getting better even in the hardened time of war. Reminding Sylvain to rest, that the bags sagging at his eyes aren’t a necessary sign of hardship.

          Sitting with Dedue, asking him to trust in her.

          “Of course I do.”

          Knowing that he’s truthful. Knowing that he’s right.

          Dimitri is in her room.

          “Oh.” She stares dumbly at his form in her bed, staring at her upwards. His legs are up, knees blocking much of his upper body, arms around himself. Nude, sans her coat, a scrap of cloth replacing what was once the flimsy leather around his waist. There’s a length of chain on the floor by her bed that wasn’t previously there, and she looks up to him.

          Dimitri shifts his arms, tightening them, gaze wandering from Byleth to the chains back to the bed. The silence ticks something in her, familiar now, and she grunts as she grabs the hem of her shirt and tugs it off her head. There’s an intake of breath from Dimitri, sharp, and she huffs.

          “Do you want this?” Truthful. Blunt. She unhooks her bra, aware of his eyes stuck on hers. He’s still quiet, mouth shut though he’s gnawing at his bottom lip, and Byleth leans down to grab at the chain. Her breasts jostle with the movement, causing another gasp from him, and she could sneer if fury weren’t lapping so greedily at her.

          “Lie down.” He does, looking remarkably frail on the length of her coat. She grabs his arm, waiting for him to relax his shoulders before dragging them up to her headboard. It is ridiculous, how easily she takes to tying his arms back around the headboard, securing him in place.

          Out of chains, only to be put back in.

          She does sneer, this time.

          “Really? All this effort to wait for me, and still nothing?” His eye averts, pink strengthening on his cheeks. She pinches his mouth, pursing his lips open, before lowering herself to bite at his lips. He moans, writhes, needy. Wanting.

          She needs to remember that.

          He wants this.

          Even if she’s cruel, digging her hands into his hair, dragging her nails along his side. She presses down on his shoulders, sweeps along his sides, scratches at his chest. The muscles under her tense, becoming apparent, and she draws lines along the skin.

          He’s hard against her, easy. Byleth laughs into his mouth, biting his tongue, drawing blood. He moans, arching against her, what little gasps and groans emitting from him swallowed up by her.

          When she pulls from him, a line of drool hanging between the two, Byleth digs her hands into his side.

          “Talk to me,” she demands, spitting onto his laugh. What response he could have is lost in a laugh from her fingers, prodding, tickling, digging and stretching the skin. He’s thrashing under her, undoubtedly growing in volume, and Byleth absentmindedly recalls that Dedue had taken the others out.


          “Dimitri, talk. To. Me!” He writhes, kicking out, chains pulling against the headboard. Laughing, laughing, laughing, until his face is red, tears threatening to emerge from his eyes. And even then, his brow is pinched, eye squeezed shut.

          She drags her hands up to his neck, cutting off a chuckle in a squeeze.

          His eye pops open to stare.


          It’s fury. Irritation. Days turned to weeks to months, of his eye on her, of his hands on her, of him wanting her. Silence, stretching always, broken by her. Always her.

          Byleth’s so fucking sick of this shit.

          Her fingers press harsher down, digging his collar against his skin. It’ll leave a mark if she’s not careful, and she finds that she doesn’t really mind. Let him be red. Let him choke, coughing, wheezing giggles quickly fading into gritted silence, quivering lip.


          It’s a whisper, barely there in the air. And yet it sings in her head, finally, finally, and she loosens her thumb just a smidge to let him breathe a little deeper. It must be hard, her on him, and she can feel him shiver with every breath he takes in.

          “Sorry what?” Why?

          “Sorry.” That’s not an answer, and she presses down again. Dimitri winces, eye twitching, as his breath catches. It’s not what she wants, not what he needs, and they both know it.

          Silence stretches between them, Dimitri softening against her, and Byleth finds she doesn’t care. She keeps their eyes locked, thumb pressing still against his apple, refusing. They’ve played by his rules too fucking long.

          It’s Dimitri who drops his gaze first.

          “I want—I want,” sore, quiet. Evidently, he hasn’t taken too much effort in wetting his throat prior. Byleth loosens her hands, taking note to bring him water after.

          “I want to lay with you.”

          His face burns even as the words slide out of his mouth. It’s—something. An admission. A quiet realization, even if Byleth’s known for weeks now.

          She could kiss him, and she does. Softer, simple, just a press of lips against lips. The kind that could placate, could calm, the kind that loosens Dimitri’s shoulders and has him sighing against her mouth.

          “What else?” She asks, leaning back to drag her hands down from the collar to his skin. He shifts, soft moans bubbling out again, wriggling under her touch.

          “I want,” he swallows, eye fluttering shut. “I want.”

          “I want to sit with them again.”


          Byleth lightens her touch, waiting. Watching, the bob in his throat, the pinch of his mouth. The wetting of his lip, when he drags his tongue guiltily along.

          “I want to speak with them. To-to have tea with them. To see them, truly.” His voice drops in pitch as he speaks, quieting, and she prompts his mouth back open with another kiss. He tenses, her arms coming to wrap around his waist, mouth forming soundless words.

          “I want to fight with them.”


          “I want to fight with you.”



          Her fingers dig into his skin again at the apology, eyes squeezing shut. Is that it, then? Days and weeks and months of nothing, for this? An admission of—of, not guilt, not really, just… wanting? Desires?

          “Don’t apologize.” Simple. Easy. She wants this, cupping his chin upward, licking at the torn wound she’s inflicted onto him. Her hands run along his hair, his skin, lighter, softer, no longer smudged with dirt and dust and decay. He whines under her, legs shaking, arms pulling just slightly.

          Her eyes flicker to the chains binding his arm up, the collar voluntarily worn. Fear?

          She pinches the skin of his arm, and though it jerks, he quickly returns it to its previous position. She could hum, in satisfaction, in success. Byleth instead nips at his jaw, watching.



          “They want to see you too.” Dimitri’s eye widens, shock so evidently clear on his form. She could laugh if it weren’t for the desire to cry tugging so at her, angry, anguished.

          “What?” Lost, confused child.

          “They miss you. Annette, Annette asked for you.” His breathing stills, uncertain, and she finds her hands frozen as she speaks.

          “Dedue misses you. So does Ashe, Mercedes. Sylvain. Felix, Ingrid. I.” Byleth swallows. Truth. Trust.

          “I miss you, Dimitri.”

          His mouth is truly agape now, unable to speak, unable to formulate beyond dumb confusion. She does laugh, hands scraping down his chest now. Her eyes slip shut, content, comfort.

          He’s given her his bonds. She must give him hers.

          “Claude asked for you.” Air is punched out of him, puzzlement flashing. Byleth scoots further down, letting herself lay on him, her breasts pooling onto his chest. “He wished you well.”

          “Don’t you want to see him?”

          “Edelgard,” tension. Predictable, necessary. She soothes his form with a gentle touch, kissing his collarbone. “Weren’t you fighting to see her? I mean,” she laughs, shaky, “I haven’t been here. I wouldn’t know.”

          “But don’t you want to see her?”

          Lost people, lost friends, lost years gone by in a wink of sleep. Lost families, lost bonds, and here she is, laying on her former student bound, in an empty room that once held happy families, happy faces. Lost, the blood spilled onto the floor, that soaks her skin, soaks his.


          She licks her lips.

          He speaks first.

          “I do.”

          It’s an admission, guilty, wanting. Dimitri’s eye is shut, his breathing level, though there’s no denying the tenseness with which his hands clench and unclench against the board. She waits, patient.

          She wants this.

          “I want to see them.”

          So does he.

          “Good boy.” Dimitri’s breath leaves him in a sigh at the word, head tilting back as she runs her hand along his hair. She sits up again, moving back, cupping his length. It’s softened in their conversation, though it’s only a matter of shifting her fingers and scratching at the skin before he stiffens again, soft moans slipping from his mouth.

          “I want,” spills from him, arcing, aching. She plays with his head, pressing her nail against his skin and watching Dimitri jerk at the sensation. “I want, I want, to lay with you.”

          “Sure,” Byleth laughs. It’s easy enough to slip out of her tights, her pants, watching Dimitri pant at the sight of her wet cunt. She sighs, pressing two fingers against her entrance, spreading it so that he can see. Dimitri stiffens, red truly flushing him to his shoulders, and Byleth barks another laugh.

          The little vial of oil is useful for lubing her up properly. It’s been a while, a long time, since Byleth has slept with a man, and she knows that their pushing hasn’t been productive to getting her properly wet. She presses two fingers into herself, moaning, grinning as Dimitri’s eyes follow her so fervently. It’s hard to remember sometimes, how innocent he once was.

          She wants to defile him.

          “Beg me.” She shouldn’t, not really. It’s just an indulgent little thing, a push that she doubts Dimitri will follow. But his eye lids, his mouth open, and the punched breath comes out a whine.

          “Please.” Warmth curdles in her. She slips in a third finger, rewarding, and Dimitri groans. His hips jerks, though legs are properly still, waiting. Knowing. Obedient, patient, a good boy.

          Her good boy.

          The thought makes her smile. She hovers over his cock, vagina dripping, just brushing at his head with her entrance. He could thrust up and enter her, likely, but he wouldn’t. She knows, he knows.

          “Please, Byleth, may I, may I,” babbling, unaware. Needy, torn between humane and beastly desires. Byleth finds she likes him best talking.

          “Good boy.” Punctuated with her sliding against him. She groans at the sudden heat, so unused now to the feeling of a cock filling her up. Dimitri shouts, unable to calm, arms and legs pulling to try to curl around his body. Byleth places her arms against his legs, pressing them down against the bed as she lowers herself centimeter by centimeter.

          By the time they’re flushed, her clit against the hair of his groin, Dimitri’s face is fully red, spit spilling from the sides of his mouth. Byleth groans at the sight, desire curling in her heated stomach, and she finds herself leaning over to take his mouth into hers again. He’s so plaint, so easy, and she slips her tongue against his, drawing another gasp.

          “Byleth, professor, please, please.” She grins against his mouth, biting again at his lips. She rakes her nails down his chest, wanting, wanting, fixing her hands on the narrow part of his waist as she wriggles against his dick. His shout is lost in her mouth, and she hisses as her hips raise.

          “So noisy now,” Byleth notes. Dimitri averts his eyes, cowed, and she pinches his face to turn back towards her. “Keep going. I like it.” Her hips fall, burying him back into her fully, and his back arches so sharply she swears that the entire bed shifted with him.

          Something has clearly snapped, as the next moment Dimitri’s got his arms wrapped around her, his head buried against her neck, making nonsensical groans and whines. Byleth ruts against him, hearing the slap of their flesh echo beneath the shouts pulling from Dimitri.

          “Professor! Profess,” she grabs at him again, swallowing his words, sucking in his air. Panting, desperate, his voice flows so easily into her mouth. “Byleth, please, I want, I want.”

          “What,” she hisses, one hand finding purchase in his hair, the other cupping the small of his back, “do you want?”

          “I want to cum in you.” Dangerous, needy, overbearing. Byleth’s smile is all teeth as she drags her tongue along his neck, pulling him back to better bare his skin. Her hips slap against his, groaning at how well, how warm, he fills her up. Inexperience is his lost cause, for he’s tensing around her, arms bruising powerful, words lost in a building shriek.

          “Then do it,” Byleth snarls, pushing them flush, her breasts meeting his so well. His hands grip at her shoulders, her hair, eye wide and glassy as his pants and moans melt into a messy stream. The feeling of his cum filling her makes her gasp, back arching, and she pressed him down to better rest against her as his hips lock, legs tense, unable to do much but scream at the overwhelming sensation.

          Byleth slides her fingers along her clit, groaning loudly as she continues riding Dimitri’s shooting cock. His cum makes an awfully good lubricant for her to grind against, drawing pants from them both. His eye flutters shut, mouth open in constant pants, when she bites down onto his shoulder, feeling the pleasure mount.

          Weeks of stress and irritation come to a dawn in her orgasm, and she pinches at Dimitri’s skin as orgasm takes hold of her body. She bites at the stupid fucking collar still on his neck, pulling and pulling with furious might until it snaps in her mouth. Her nails dig into him, her legs tight as she rocks in the fading bliss, finding her eyes shut.

          She opens them to the dizzying sight of Dimitri, lips bleeding, cheeks wet, and so very pink.

          “Professor?” A whimper, his legs shaking from overstimulation of her riding him still. She shivers, clenching down, feeling him whine and tighten his grip on her. She is certain to emerge with some finger sized bruises, and likewise, she knows that she’s left some marks on him as well.

          “Dimitri?” Byleth echoes. His eye traces her face, haze slowly fading, before a gentle smile begins to creep at his lips. It is ridiculous against his clearly sex-pleasured face, and she finds herself kissing at him.

          “I missed you.”

          Dimitri stiffens against her. His mouth opens, perhaps to apologize, perhaps to protest. Byleth finds that she doesn’t care, more occupied on pressing another kiss at his lips, his cheeks, the crease of his forehead. She steadies herself on her knees, straightening, lifting herself off his dick. Dimitri moans, long, high, the sound of his cum spilling out of her to fall back onto his thighs a relief.

          His arm comes to touch hers, and Byleth stills.

          “I,” his eye averts, “I missed you, too.”

          Five fucking years. A moment for her, but a seemingly long stretch of forever to her students. Byleth closes her eyes, remembering.

          I don’t know what we’d do without you.

          Go mute, apparently.

          “I’m here, now,” not an apology. She’s had enough of the stupid “sorry”s. Her hand runs through his hair, gentler, curling it along her fingers. “I know I wasn’t here earlier. I know that so much has happened.”

          Byleth presses a kiss to his forehead, sighing.

          “I’m here, now. And I’m not going anywhere.” Dimitri freezes, his shoulders tensed, before softening again. When he kisses Byleth, nothing more than his lip meeting hers, his lips are gentle.

          “Thank you.”

          They stay like that, her in his lap, his head pressed against her breasts, her neck, content to doze as she runs her hands in his hair. It isn’t until night fall that she must stand, eying Dimitri’s new scars and stickiness with amusement. Undoubtedly Ingrid and Mercedes will be concerned when they see her later, but, well, it’ll be fine.

          She’s here, now.

          Things have to change.


          What was she expecting? What is she doing?

          Ingrid and Felix have taken to watching her with careful eyes as she paces to and fro, fingers digging crescent marks into her palm. Dedue and Ashe had gone silent, previously discussing happier times, plans to have happier futures. They stare at her too now, more openly, confusion and concern spelled on their faces.

          Byleth can’t bring herself to care.

          It’s Sylvain who breaks the silence, running in with a pale face. He’s panting, harsh, drawing Ingrid and Felix to rush to his side as Dedue and Ashe stiffen, grabbing at their weapons on the floor. Armed, ready, for ambush, assault.

          “Talk!” Sylvain shouts, fist pushing against the wall. Felix and Ingrid share an absurd look, uncertain as they pull Sylvain to straighten on his feet. It’s only Byleth who realizes, eyes on Sylvain as his meets hers.

          “Talking,” he pants, gaze unwavering, “Dimitri. He’s talking.”

          She’s pushed past Felix before her mind can catch up, feet thundering up the stairs. What could be fury spitting in the spit of her stomach is replaced with giddy hope, something dawning at the edge of her thoughts and threatening to bubble in.

          She’s greeted by a teary Annette by the door, and though she’s sniffling, the smile on her face is the freest Byleth’s seen since she’s awoken.

          “Professor!” The title, sang, not spit, in her direction. It is as though the world has spun on her feet, and Byleth stumbles on the final steps in. Annette is fast to catch her, though not quick enough.

          Two hands, large, scarred, stable her.


          Dimitri smiles down at her. It’s impossible to quell the waterworks threatening to break free of her gut, made worse by the stifled sobbing of Mercedes in the room. She’s placed her arm around Annette, both grinning as the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs echo around them. Evidently, the others are catching up.

          “Dimitri.” Byleth responds. She’s smiling, truly unable to still the tears coming to the surface. Though his face pinches at her tears, clearly at a loss, it softens when her shoulders shake with a laugh.

          “Dimitri!” Felix is shouting, and then Byleth is stepping back, narrowly avoiding the furious hug Felix and Ingrid tackle Dimitri with. She gapes, only slightly taken back, before realizing that their faces are wet, arms truly shaking as they embrace. Sylvain stumbles behind them, clearly more wiped by the run, though he lazily joins by hooking his arms around Dimitri. Dedue and Ashe come up in the rear, sliding into the space freed by Byleth. When Dimitri spots them, his eye pinched with overflowing tears, Dedue presses his face against the crook of Dimitri’s neck, Ashe grabbing him from behind.

          The sound of tinkering laughter from Dimitri is the kindest Byleth has ever known.

Chapter Text


Stuffy suit, stuffy body. Endeavor grunts as he shoves past anxious reporters, quick to snap pictures of their new number one. He doesn’t have time for their nonsense, not when the cost is spawning doubt about his new, if it could even be called that, regime. The silence of his words echo back at him, irritation, silence, as his mind flickers to the earlier announcement.

“Just watch me.” He had given the world, and now it was his time to see what it so rightfully judged of him.

No doubt the younger fans have blown up about the scene- out of touch he may be, Fuyumi has time and time again indulged him in phrases and terms the youth enjoyed, regardless of how strange he thought them. It is better, at least, than the wary silence with which Natsu shares across the hall, knees up against the table, a fine line drawn. Shoto has not wanted to return home since his moving into the school dorms, and Endeavor cannot bring himself to fault him.

A life of mistakes, an empty home his penance.

The suit stretched across his body is scratchy and thick in comparison to the usual hero suit he wears. It’s black, not red nor navy, stereotypical black suit and shoes to match his somber outlook. The flame tie is tacky, unfortunately glittery, but Natsu has pointed it out. It was irony, something meant to be petty in nature; Endeavor wears his son’s pick with forgotten pride.

Fuyumi had smiled when he adjusted the tie in the mirror, and he carries that with him as well.

“You look good.” Hawks is an unwelcome voice, distractedly brushing Endeavor’s arm with his shoulder. Endeavor grimaces,  glancing over fervent camera clips and microphones to look at the number two hero.

Hawks pays Endeavor no mind, waving and chattering happily about gossip and trends and other youthful antics. The colorful bomber he wears is glossy thick, yet to casual for such an event- made worse by the slim jeans he’s tucked into exaggeratedly ugly sneakers. Side by side, they are an era apart, a sentimental old man and a child, fluttering wings and sparkling colors. Endeavor turns away from the crowding reporters aiming to get a snap of the top two, only to be halted by Hawks whispering in his ear.

“Dressing room F12.” A clue, or a warning? Endeavor glances over at the other, a stern glare to anyone else, but Hawks simply cackles at the look. His wings flare, deep and deeper hues catching the artificial light, before returning to the eyes and ears of the reporters.


It is easy enough to escape into the room, ducking behind hoards of heroes and crew until the darkness of unlit back hallways crowd out the light. Security does not permit just anyone in the hind conference room, in part for safety of the heroes, mostly for concern for those stupid enough to try to attack any of them while the top ten pros are in the same place. A seemingly wise idea until the realization that it would be the fastest way to be caught and thrown into jail. Endeavor cannot forget the time, years ago, when All Might’s room had been broken into while changing. The caught thief was not only put into place in a matter or seconds, he was also apparently guilty of a history of taking pictures of young girls. The abrupt switch from someone of Fuyumi’s age to All Might both confused and disgusted Endeavor.

It is perhaps experiences like so that has made him blind, bland, to the ones that Hawks so carefully crafts. Or so he would like to say, if the writing on his wall were not so crude.

“Your dick goes here.” Hawks’ scribbled writing stands above a scrawled arrow pointing downwards to a single hole, perfectly sanded down. It looks as though it were always meant to be here, a fixture of the room, and Endeavor would almost believe it if he hadn’t been here hours before, when the wall was white and clear of all absurdities. He stares at the hole, snorting unbelievably, and settles into the dressing chair opposite the wall.

A minute, then five, then fifteen pass before Endeavor hears the swinging of the door to the room attached to his. A sing-song hum travels through the hole, and then there’s an eye glancing through. Endeavor stares, legs spread open, hands clenched onto the leg of his pants.

Hawks huffs something that could be a laugh, shuffling away from the wall. Endeavor can hear his jacket unzip, the crinkle of fabric descending from his shoulders to drop to the floor. Something metallic hits the wall and then Endeavor is staring at a familiar pink tongue, waggling playfully.

“Is this what you called me here for?” Gruff, falsified irritation. Hawks coughs, high and sweet, running his tongue along his lips.

“Can’t you read?” A nuisance. Endeavor growls, crossing his arms, staring at the offending writing. He should have known better than to trust Hawks to ask for privacy with any decency. He knows better than to follow his blind commands, uncouth, stinking of immaturity and humility.

Endeavor stands, the patent leathers of his shoe a snap against his floor. Hawks makes a noise reminiscent of a whine, obnoxious, unnecessary, and then his tongue is pressed through the hole again. A clear invitation that Endeavor answers with a pull of his zipper, the pop of his button. His dress pants bunch at his thighs, skinny custom things, and he pulls his silk boxers down with it. His dick, soft in his hands, is guided to the wall. With a sigh at the ugly scrawl, he finally slides it through.

Hawks’ mouth is a familiar warm wetness and Endeavor grunts. He has only slipped the head of his dick and Hawks kisses the tip, licking along his slit and teeth just barely brazing against the sensitive skin. Endeavor hisses, feeling heat begin to swirl in his lower stomach, stepping closer to the wall. His dick slides from side to side, out of Hawks mouth and back in, and he bites down on his lips when Hawks mouth covers him entirely.

From here, Endeavor can no longer see any hint of Hawks, not a strand of hair nor the flush of heat visible against his cheeks. Only the hardening of his dick is visible, that, and the crude writing on the wall. Hawks makes a noise, squished, moist, and Endeavor pushes himself closer to the wall. The sound of a zipper breaks through the wet noise of Hawks sliding on his dick and Endeavor chuckles.

“Are you touching yourself?” Not an accusation, nor a tell, yet Hawks’ exaggerated moan is a vibration that travels along Endeavor’s body. He clamps down on his jaw, teeth grinding, as Hawks hums and sucks, his cheek brushing against Endeavor’s dick as he slides his head along.

“Ridiculous.” Reckless, youthful recklessness, that’s what this is. Endeavor cannot remember a time last that he stood like this, staring at drilled in walls in the bathroom, tongues waggling for a passing master. This is different. He grunts and shakes his hips just slightly, unable to gain momentum pressed against the wall. This is different.

Endeavor is no passing master, Hawks not a waiting stranger.

Hawks is his, and Endeavor his.

“Come on,” he hisses, hands clenching against the wall. The wetness of Hawks around him is a building heat in his stomach, a slow growth driven by the soft moans and the slightest scratch of teeth against him. Endeavor pulls at his own chest, feeling odd, never being one for self-relief prior to Hawks demands to watch him touch himself. Here, in an empty room with his dick in a hole, the creeping awkwardness quells the heat roiling in his abdomen.

He’s fully hard, just barely tutting against the wall. Finding himself wishing the hole was larger, or the wall thinner. Endeavor pinches at the base of his dick, the two centimeters unable to pass into Hawks’ waiting mouth, and pulls at his balls. Hawks’ humming and pulling back, the tickle of his hair just brushing against Endeavor’s dick before he’s fucking himself on it.

Endeavor groans this time, loud and long, vibrations tingling through the wall as his palms heat. Hawks is a shivering of sensation, hot and wet and careless, even as Endeavor finds himself rutting against the wall, dick scratching at the back of Hawks’ throat. He hisses, unable to quell the irritated rise of heat at the crude words still spelled across the slate before him, finding himself wishing it were Hawks, flushed red with lidded eyes, hair in disarray as a result of Endeavor’s fingers pulling and burning at the ends. The imagery of Hawks yelping as he snaps his hips against his face, the blissful warmth reddening him from ear to neck, pink spread across his collarbones, causes Endeavor to pound a fist against the wall.

“Don’t cum.” It’s a command, this one. Hawks makes a noise unknown to be a croon or a purr, but it sends trembles up Endeavor’s body all the same. He doesn’t manage to quell the quickening huffs of his breath, hot, burning, and the wall almost seems to soften under his hands and he places his head against it, chasing the cool surface. Hawks doubles down on his dick, bobbing incessantly fast, fingers now rubbing and stroking the middle of his length and his tongue focuses on flicking at the sensitive slit at the head.

It is hard not to let his mind wander past the white wall into the room over, to see Hawks’ tee pulled up, hands pinching at his nipple as he suckles and whines over Endeavor. He can see him so well, hands sticky with his own precum, now running along Endeavor’s length, eyes focused on the base of his cock. Hawks always enjoyed the hair at the base, tugging at it with his fingers, the dark curls tickling his thighs when he rides Endeavor. He cannot see it across the wall, surely, yet Endeavor finds himself thinking he would stare through identical holes to fixate on Endeavor’s groin. And why not, when he’s so close already.

“Swallow,” Endeavor commands, and then he’s groaning, low and harsh, a bellow of his power shaking the wall between their rooms. His eyes squeeze shut, flares coming to light against the blackness, fire and ice sending spikes along his skin. The wall bends under his hands, a string of whispered grumbles slipping from his throat. Hawks’ humming is cut off as cum spills down his throat, burning hot to coat the inside of his mouth, and his hands squeeze Endeavor’s dick twice before he pulls off with a sigh.

Endeavor pulls his hands off the wall, glaring at the charred imprints left behind.  His pants quiet as he strains to hear the soft shuffling of clothing across the wall, until a single red feather pokes through the hole. Endeavor stares, uncertain, until he leans down to pinch the offending intrusion.

Hawks responding moan is needlessly loud, obnoxious, and Endeavor finds himself wishing again that this was wasn’t between them, that he could see Hawks entire wing, prying and pulling individual feathers as he fucks into the number two. He palms at his softening dick, sighing.

“Enji,” panting, teasing, sincerely desperate and cruelly intentional. Endeavor growls, stomach still warm, as Hawks feather retreats through the wall. “I wanna cum. Can I cum? Enji, Enji, Enji.”

Nuisance. Irritating, nonsensical nuisance. Endeavor grins, knocking on the wall twice. Hawks silenced immediately, undoubtedly ears perked, wings flared. Endeavor steps back from the wall, careful to cup a hand around his dick. Hawks waits, bated breaths, until Endeavor hits his chair, falling into it and letting his legs spread.

“Why don’t you come over here?”


Chapter Text

            The television flickers in and out of view, screen buzzing loudly, warning labels in neon greens and oranges popping overhead. The lightbulb quivers, flashing dangerously, as the sofa floats and titters as it scrapes against the wooden floor. Cushions wobble into jelly under Sam’s rear, glossy and squishy as he grumbles, readjusting to pull his laptop closer from its precarious perch on the roaring tabletop, legs turned claws that scramble across the room. Above Sam sits Gabriel, looking remarkably flushed pretty with a golden collar framing his neck, delicate leaves and flowers intertwining for a design out of the Roman era.

            Sam would ask about it if not for the lecherous grin stretched on Gabriel’s face as he grinds downward in Sam’s lap, sighing softly at the bounce of the jelly. Sam grunts again, managing to wiggle a hand out to swat at Gabriel’s behind. The angel startles with a laugh, falling over to wriggle his arms around Sam’s head. Sam finds himself grumbling against Gabriel’s chest, lips pressed against his nipple, when he manages to squirm out of the hold.

            “Gabriel, turn it back.” A scolding complimented with two swats to Gabriel’s behind. The delighted laughter rings in the air, teasing, loving, and then the room shimmers back down to humanity. The television returns to a melodramatic wedding story, the table clambering back to take its place on the carefully placed rug. Gabriel wrestles his hands around Sam’s back, squeezed close so that they’re properly chest to chest, face nestled in the crook of Sam’s neck. The sofa under them trembles and groans before receding from jelly to vintage floral, a true Grandma’s couch.

            All the while, Gabriel warms Sam’s dick.

            “Really?” Try as he might, Sam can’t keep the biting amusement from seeping into his voice. Gabriel responds with a teasing wriggle of his ass, bouncing just slightly on Sam’s hips, gaining hisses and moans from both. When Sam digs his nails into his behind, Gabriel throws his head back dramatically, gripping Sam’s shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

            “Oh Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Where’s your sense of pleasure gone? Dean-O’s not here to patrol you, so let loose! Have a little fun!” His words are punctuated with careful thrusts of his hips, pistoning himself on Sam’s cock as small gasps and moans dilate his voice. Sam sighs, though the smirk tugging at his mouth says otherwise. Gabriel is pleased to say that Sam gain in rather quickly, tugging Gabriel close to kiss at his mouth, tongue running along his lower lips before retreating.

            “Gabriel,” Sam moans, eyes lidded. Warmth tickles the lower depths of his stomach, comfortably warm and heavy after having Gabriel on his lap for what must be near a half hour by now. The angel had behaved for a whole five minutes before taking charge, messing with the furniture, teleporting Dean away (he reassured Sam Castiel had gone to follow Dean after a proper scolding), and snapping various articles of clothing onto them both, including but not limited to cat ears, pizza boy costumes, and a five-piece lingerie set that Sam secretly tucked into his mind for future opportunities.

            Unfortunately, Sam’s a busy man.

            “I have work,” Sam reminds the smug angel sitting in his lap. Being Gabriel’s lover is all well-and-good until he has work to do, and then Gabriel’s suddenly the neediest animal in existence. Sam would have thought he an omega in heat until Gabriel had cackled, loud and crude, about how positively inane humans were.

            “And?” Gabriel grins, grinding down again. His cock rubs at Sam’s stomach and he moans, doing a cute wiggle of his hips. The temptation to grab him by his thighs and haul him over the table is rising, but Sam can’t help but eye his open computer screen staring accusatorially at him.

            “And you said that you’d wait for me. You’d be my,” it’s ridiculous, sometimes, the words Gabriel uses, “cock warmer. So sit still and warm me.” Sam knows his face is burning, pinkish flush that trails from ear to ear, but it’s hard not to when he’s lucky enough to have a billion-year-old archangel sitting in his lap, playing with his hair and tickling his shoulders when he hides against Sam’s neck.

            “Am I not warming you up? You seem pretty warm to me.” Prime satisfaction forms the smirk stretched on Gabriel’s face, lazy and content as he pulls close against Sam. His breath against Sam’s neck is a tingle that sends warmth up Sam’s spine and he moans, tightening his arms around Gabriel’s waist.

            Temptation licks at his defenses, but he really, really has work to do.

            “Gabriel. Sit. That’s an order.” The words come out curt, bitten, and Gabriel’s smile flashes devious as he looms over Sam. It would be so easy, so hilariously easy, for him to wave his hand and curdle Sam’s laptop into butter, the room folding into itself so that they descend into a pocket universe for Gabriel’s pleasure. It would be so simple, something worthy of nothing more than a blink of Gabriel’s lashes, a wave of his hand, a snap of his fingers, and then Sam would be buried balls deep inside his lover, their skin a slapping echo in an empty room lined with toys and rope and lubricant.

            Gabriel could ruin Sam’s life with a shift of his eyes.

            Instead, he stills. Stretches himself upward just once, eyes a brilliant gold as the light catches his irises, smile glinting diamonds, his arms close back around Sam’s shoulders. Sam’s laptop is lovingly floated back into his hands, pressed behind Gabriel’s back, before Gabriel presses his lips against Sam’s ear, a simple peck prior to ducking into Sam’s shoulder, sighing softly. The golden collar around his neck is a cool sensation as it brushes Sam’s skin, and he startles.

            An archangel turned cock warmer.

            Sam can hardly be any more turned on.

            He would have never thought himself interested in the BDSM community in the past. Whips and chains were always more Dean’s things, admiring cuffed girls in stretchy leather and lace, heels as tall as his head. Then Hell had come, and their nightmares became the norm of their life, and the submission, the willingness to bare themselves nude, had disappeared so easily from their lives.

            Gabriel had come, blinding, bright, a smile that could burn the world in a millisecond, a hand that could bring salvation on one side, death on the other. He had come and chosen Sam, had kissed Sam, had sworn to Sam with a furrow of his brows and a slant to his lips.

            Then Gabriel had let Sam collar him.

            It is a pleasure, a gift, a Goddamn blessing to have Gabriel sit in his lap, docile, charmingly at peace. To hear the tapping of his keyboard as he pulls up reference after reference, immersing himself in tales as old as time, reading repeat reports that Gabriel could skim and repeat in a millisecond. To sit here, to research, is to step in a time before the nightmares, the horror, Hell itself.

            Gabriel gives it to Sam.

            Gabriel gives so damn much to Sam.

            Sam presses a kiss against the heated neck bared to him, sliding a hand upward to press at Gabriel’s shoulder blades. Nude sans the golden wreath of a collar worn tight across his throat, Gabriel makes a soft sigh against Sam’s back, hands loosely scratching at his sweatshirt.

            It is hard, still, to comprehend the bubbling warmth that flares inside Sam when Gabriel surrenders to his touches, his commands. Sam had always been—vanilla. Simple. A woman and a child, a dog or two, a white house with a porch in the countryside overseeing a green patch of land. Sam.

            Gabriel. All-powerful, all-seeing, not a woman and neither a man. Something, someone, beyond Sam’s comprehension, and yet he sits here still, yielding, patient, a malleable form under Sam’s touch and commands. Sam would have thought it logical had Gabriel been bound by the universal rules as humanity, segmented so strongly by awakened rights, alphas, betas, omegas alike. Had Gabriel been an omega, life tormented and bound by his instincts, spiraling heats leaving him unable to consent, communicate, lead, then Sam would understand. Unable to protest to the smell of Sam, the heat of Sam, the mere existence to an alpha lingering so close to him. Sam would understand.

            Instead, Gabriel takes one look at society and laughs in its face.

            Not an alpha, nor a beta, nor an omega. Something simple, something beyond, a mass of hope and dreams and righteous anger that threatens to split the world when set aflame. A presence set to ruin, to rule, made to remind humanity of its place. It would be so easy. Gabriel would make it so easy.

            Gabriel’s hands drag down Sam’s back, his breath stuttering as Sam stretches forward to place his laptop against the glass table. He can’t focus on this, not like this, not with Gabriel stretched so pleasantly on his lap, not with Gabriel’s hair stuck to his face, a red flush crawling onto his shoulders, the barest tickle of feathers against Sam’s hands. Death and fear and anger alike, hatred that Gabriel could rain down on Earth. Power beyond Sam, beyond any lifeform wandering free. Pure, pure, power.

            The press of his lips against Sam’s chin is as delicate as a budding flower.

            “Gabriel.” It’s a whisper of a word passing through his lips. Gabriel smiles, not a smirk, not a tease, just a small twitch before he leans in close again, carefully tugging on Sam’s lips. Sam moans, hand wandering upward to comb along Gabriel’s loose strands, the other flicking at invisible feathers. The moan sends trembles throughout Gabriel’s body, always sensitive, always willing, his wings so receptive to every touch.

            Sam loves it.

            Sam loves him.

            “Sammy,” Gabriel breathes, just a huff of air passing through his mouth. He kisses at Sam’s cheeks, his eyelids, his forehead, pressing upward with his knees cushioned against the couch before sliding back down, groaning at the stretch of Sam inside him. “Sammy, are you done researching? Can we finally fuck now?”

            The words are crude, his hips already shaking on Sam’s lap, yet Sam cannot help how gently the words caress his ears, the tone a tremor. His face must be red, heat running either upward or down, and he presses a kiss to Gabriel’s chest to avoid staring at those wonderful amber eyes.

            “Yes.” Yes. Yes. Yes.

            Luck, generosity, hope. Something, someone, out there must be looking out for Sam, else he cannot fathom how deeply Gabriel can take him, how gently his arms can press against his back, how quickly he keens and quivers under the slow stroke of Sam’s fingers through his feathers. Sam kisses Gabriel’s neck, his chest, his sides, every inch of skin made available to him. Gabriel’s moans mount in volume as his ass bounces on Sam’s cock, eyes lidded to match the lovely flush decorating his face, a pink hue contrasting the pretty gold laced around his throat. Sam presses a kiss to his apple, and Gabriel sighs.

            “Come on, tiger. Fuck me with what you got.” Cheeky, impatient. Sam grins, digging both hands into Gabriel’s shoulder blades, finding a grip around the base of his wings. There are more pairs than Sam though possible tucked inside Gabriel’s small body, and though Gabriel’s once granted him the chance, blindfolded, to run his hands through the large expanse of textures and lights, he sticks to just one, bird-like pair for most days. Sam finds himself grateful, for the gentle caresses, for the sensitivity, for how quickly Gabriel surrenders to his touch.

            Warmth swirls in his stomach, and Sam finds himself thrusting upward to match Gabriel’s next rocking motion. They moan in unison, a chorus of pleasure, as Sam hauls Gabriel upwards with his wings before dropping him back down to properly fuck himself onto Sam’s cock.

            “Gabriel, feel’s good. You’re so, hah, always so tight.” The twitching of Gabriel around him is a prickling along his skin, and Sam groans as he messily grinds Gabriel against his lap. A sex fiend, he’d call Gabriel once, until he discovered that angels didn’t need sex at all. The teasing, the playing, the fucking—all Gabriel’s adaption to humanity. All Gabriel’s attempts to connect better with Sam.

            The reminder makes the knot in Sam’s dick shake.

            “Magic, remember?” Gabriel chuckles, though the latter half is lost in a sharp hiss as he sinks back onto Sam. Wet, and tight, so much so like the ideal omega that Sam bites his lip, swallowing a whine. It emerges nonetheless, loose and messy when Gabriel hooks his hands around Sam’s neck, pulling him downward to graze his teeth on Sam’s skin.

            “Gabriel, Gabriel, I want to breed you.” He does, he does, dizzying heat burning his cheeks. Gabriel’s laugh is delightful, breathtaking; Sam finds himself unable to look away from the stretch of his skin, the sparkle illuminating his eyes as he presses back down against Sam.

            “Go ahead, Sammy.” Power, teasing, willing. Allowing, always, and Sam cannot hold back the trembling whimper that rises up his chest as his knot slides forward against Gabriel’s hole. Gabriel’s not built for this, not an omega, not a human at all; yet he hums, no more bothered with the intrusion as with any distraction, allowing Sam to rut against him so.

            “Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel!” Desperation clings at his words, sparks dancing in Sam’s eyes as he finds himself fully seated inside Gabriel. Tight, so fucking tight, and wet as the ocean. Every shift and shake of Gabriel against him is a whirlwind of sensation wracking his body, and then Sam’s pressed himself against Gabriel, kissing him as breaths escape between every heavy gulp.

            “Sam.” Sam, like this, Sam, alone together, Sam, when he’s shaking and red and needing buried deep inside his beloved. Sam, mouthing whispers and nonsense against Gabriel’s skin, hips thrusting his knot ever deeper into his lover, hands pulling and stroking and teasing the feathers spread behind Gabriel. Sam, who sees Gabriel a god, who simmers and soaks in every second of affection, every minute of attention, who claws into Gabriel’s back as he shouts, pleasure wracking his body.

            Sam, filling Gabriel up so suddenly with his semen.

            “Gabriel. Gabriel. I love you, I love you, Gabriel.” Sam’s words slide out in one breathless line, his hips unable to slow their thrusting into Gabriel as semen pumps out of him. His knot, so tight, finally begins to loosen, the instinctual thought of a successful breeding milking him so thoroughly. Sam groans against Gabriel’s skin, teeth gnashing at the golden collar glinting at him, trembling as the final quivers of pleasure reside.

            He comes back to the sensation of Gabriel squeezing tight against him, hips jerking as glassy eyes meet Sam’s. Amber, liquid gold, solidified again in his eyes, swirl playfully with every thrust.

            “Sam,” a warning, a plea, just a word to fill the air. “Sam.” Dedication, devotion, adoration.

            “Sammy.” Pleasure, joy, the warmth of Sam pulling Gabriel close to nip at his lips, one hand stroking his weeping cock, the other tickling the base of his wings.

            “I love you,” Sam whispers, sliding his tongue against the roof of Gabriel’s mouth, and then he’s clenching, hissing, eyes sliding shut to hide his gemstones that flare bright. Sam hates to close his eyes, hates to duck into Gabriel’s skin knowing the rainbow of sensation he’s missing, though he knows he has to. The lightbulb in the room rings, a screeching inhumane noise that rattles the tables and blasts the TV at full volume. A blinding light, something more than white, more than amber and gold, fills the room beyond Sam’s eyelids.

            When he opens his eyes again, Gabriel is still nude, though the collar on his neck now dangles a small flower from the front. Sam stares at it, the creases pressed into the petals, and realizes that what he’s staring at is a dangling orchid. A laugh startles him when he realizes it is his own, warm and soft as Gabriel waggles his eyebrows.

            “Rumor has it you want me to bare you a baby.” The scandalous high-tone Gabriel takes on earns him another snort from Sam, the shaking of his shoulders rocking Gabriel just slightly. He hums, wriggling his hips, cock soft though still buried into Gabriel. He feels sticky, and though he knows they are only a snap away from a clean bed and rest, the desire to hold Gabriel close for a while longer is more tempting.

            “Rumors are right,” Sam grins, pressing a longer kiss against Gabriel. They sigh, breaking, and Sam finds himself unable to quell the beating of his heart when Gabriel smiles, truly smiles, a gentle caress of his face.

            An angel, one Sam is blessed enough to hold.

Chapter Text

                Even with the plaid skirt on, Seung Gil can clearly see the bounce of JJ’s ass as he walks, propping up the heavy box of textbooks. The skirt is clearly too short, hiked up and rolled around the waist and hidden behind a loosely buttoned blouse and a beige loose vest. A perky pink bow with the same plaid pattern as the skirt hangs loosely over his chest, outlining the defined collarbones peeking out under the spread collar. JJ turns the corner of the aisle, his indoor shoes squeaking noisily, and Seung Gil’s gaze traces the line of his leg above the wrinkled white socks that cut off under his knee. JJ must notice because he huffs when he sets down the box at the back of the room, acrylic bracelets clattering noisily as he sets his hand against his waist and turns.

                “Sensei,” the skirt flutters prettily over the tops of his thighs, crinkling between his legs when he hoists one onto a chair, “where do you think you’re looking?” Seung Gil doesn’t move from his position at the chalkboard, notes rustling in hand but eyes clearly on the rise of the skirt, showing skin but no panties.

                “He’s probably counting all your dress code violations!” Phichit sings from the opposing corner of the room. Unlike JJ’s garish look, Phichit is modestly dressed in a simple dark two piece sailor uniform. His features a long cuff and a wide collar featuring white braided ribbon and a single long ribbon tie that dips past the ends of his shirt. He hefts up another box of textbooks and Seung Gil doesn’t miss the crinkle of his top against the box, rising upward and showing the flat of his stomach. There’s no camisole to protect his skin from wandering eyes unlike the black hosiery that covers his legs from below the mid-calf pleated skirt. It’s better than JJ’s, sure, but Seung Gil isn’t blind to the flash of his navel when the skirt shifts.

                “There’s nothing wrong with this,” JJ argues, as though he isn’t aware that his skirt is barely decent. He crosses his legs under him, tight, hands coming down to cover any gaps. Phichit whistles appreciatively and the other flusters, tugging the skirt uselessly and Seung Gil is suddenly immensely curious as to what the other is seeing.

                “Oh sure,” Phichit rolls his eyes as he comes closer, rummaging through the already sorted textbook boxes in the back for a spot, “I’m sure our uniforms are the same.” The boxes they’ve already sorted make two long rows across the back and Phichit must rise to tip toes to land the box above the piles, top raising with his arms and Seung Gil stares at the shallow dip in his back loosen when the box slides into place.

                “While you may not have the sheer number of violations Jean-Jacques does,” Seung Gil utters, voice echoing in the tight classroom, “I am not unaware of the shortening of your top, Phichit.” The Thai student pulls down his top from where it has ridden around his chest, the line of his muscles peeking out from the loose fabric. “In fact,” his eyes slide from Phichit to JJ, the latter flinching and hunching over as to hide the blatant skin showing as if Seung Gil hasn’t been drinking in his form the entire afternoon, “as a teacher, I shouldn’t let such attitude slide. It’s only right I deliver a punishment to you both.” Seung Gil’s voice drops low, husky, and the two shiver.

                “Punishment?” Phichit teases, shuffling between the rows of desks to come to Seung Gil’s desk. “What kind of punishment?”

                “Hmm,” Seung Gil hums, alert to the soft pitter patter of JJ following Phichit forward, “how about you two finish cleaning up while I run down to the office to drop off these papers? If you’re not done by the time I return,” his eyes twinkle in knowing, “I’ll have to dole out detention.”

                 “Eh, that’s it?” JJ murmurs. He’s tip toeing around the desk, shoulders hunched forward and steps careful. Seung Gil eyes him for a moment, lingering on the slightly faded hickies that dot the other’s collar, and turns away.

                “I’ll be back soon,” he promises, waving the folder of files in his hands. Phichit hums amusedly at his back, echoing an “okay” as he raises another box. He slides open the door and exits to the rustle of textbooks being moved.

                The door closes behind him and Seung Gil sets down the folders to the floor and kneels, waiting. It’s not like he can wander down to the office in a skirt suit, much less one that barely reaches mid-thigh. Instead, he adjusts the fake glasses they had bought from the 100yen store, poking at the lens-less frames. The sounds of their rummaging in the classroom are barely audible through the door.

                The school itself is nice. Small, clean, and volunteer-friendly. When Yuuri had mentioned to Phichit about the local middle school needing some organization midsummer, JJ had insisted that they should help out. Seung Gil had easily agreed, but Phichit had some terms and conditions to fulfill first. The watch on Seung Gil’s wrist, frilly pink and a gag present, ticked to a minute passing. The sounds of movement in the room stilled.

                Instead, pressed close to the door, the sound of lips meeting lips picked up.

                Seung Gil shifted uncomfortably, leaning against the sliding door. A soft little breathy moan filtered through the gaps in the doorframe. A clattering noise of something hit the floor, and then, silence. Seung Gil held his breath, waiting, until the noise of someone hitting a desk, screeching across the floor, rang.

                He rose. A single hand grasped the handle of the door.

                Seung Gil pulled it open. And shut it firmly behind him, locking the knob.

                “S-Sensei,” Phichit acknowledged, pulling away from where JJ was sitting on a desk, spilled and open textbooks splayed around the table and on the floor. In the dim light of the room, Seung Gil’s eyes followed the string of saliva between the two, pulling long and splitting, splotching the dark fabric of Phichit’s skirt. “That was fast.”

                “It’s late in the day,” Seung Gil explains, waving at the position of the two, “I believe I told you to put away textbooks, not dirty school property.” JJ fakes a pout, pulling at his bottom lip as his legs swing around Phichit’s hips, drawing the Thai in.

                “We’re just entertaining ourselves, sensei. Isn’t it your fault that we’re bored?” Phichit had pulled JJ’s collar wide, wider, the white fabric just barely clinging to the beige vest that loosely fell over his form. A hand traced the curve of Phichit’s ass, neatly wrinkling the thinly pleated skirt between tan fingers. “Sensei, what are you going to do?”

                “It seems that I’m going to need to remind you two of our school’s rules,” Seung Gil answers. He clears his throat, loud in the tension, and marches to the front desk, sharply patting the wooden top. “JJ, come over here.”

                Phichit whines as JJ grins, hopping off the desk with too much excitement for a student to be put into detention. Seung Gil is certain that he’ll manage to change his student’s mind as he rummages through the desk drawer’s contents, pulling out a tool that he wedges between paper stacks. In moments, his troublesome student plants himself firmly on the desk, pleated skirt crinkling into his thighs. Seung-Gil eyes the raised folds in the middle where JJ’s erection presses, but doesn’t move forward to touch his front. Instead, he lightly taps JJ’s lower back.

                “I don’t recall saying to sit.” The Canadian gives a dramatic huff, swinging off and nearly colliding into Phichit’s incoming form. Seung-Gil moves to the side of the desk and hits the center again. “I want you to lay over it.” Phichit’s eyes lit up in recognition even as JJ’s brows furrow and he wanders forward, almost wary, torso hovering over the desk and ass perk in the air.

                “This good, teach?” JJ teases, hips bouncing. Phichit hums from behind, wandering up to his other side opposing Seung Gil.

                “JJ,” Seung Gil’s hand is on him in a second, squeezing the fold of skin between his ass and his upper thighs, forcing him still. “I don’t recall asking you to speak. In fact, I don’t want to hear anything from you but numbers.” JJ freezes in recognition, hands suddenly tense against the table. Seung Gil’s hand wanders upward, lazily playing with the edge of his skirt. “Is that clear?”

                “Yes, sensei.” Phichit moans softly, hands pressed firmly at his side despite his skirt tenting. He smiles at JJ, and the skater relaxes just a fraction. Seung Gil runs his fingers through his undercut, rough at the back and soft in the front, a gentle comfort. His shoulders fall a bit more.

                “JJ,” his other hand leafs through the papers, feeling familiar plastic and pulling it from the pile, “do you trust me? Can I trust you?” His grip on his student’s hair tightens a moment, then relaxes and is pulled away. Without hearing the answer, Seung Gil grips the end of the ruler clutched in his fist and raises it. Phichit swallows, audible and JJ’s breathing quickens at the noise.

                “Yes, yes, I tru-hah!” The slap of the ruler is muffled against the plaid skirt fabric, but there’s no missing the clang of JJ’s knees against the hollow metal of the desk bottom. Phichit moans, a little “ah” noise, hands twitching to touch himself. A glance from Seung Gil stops him, forcing his hands to twist the ends of his skirt in wait.

                “I thought I wanted numbers,” Seung Gil murmurs, low, dangerous. His hand tickles at JJ’s cheeks, gripping the fabric and flipping it upward as the ruler is brought down again. His eyes widen and the ruler slows, just tapping at JJ’s upper thighs rather than slapping his exposed ass. Seung Gil traces over the nude expanse of skin, at the sticky hole and the small trail of precum that’s beginning to trail down his inner thighs.

                “One,” JJ murmurs, tense in wait as a cool wind brushes against his exposed back. Seung Gil doesn’t respond this time, and only the anticipation from Phichit warns him when the ruler is brought back again, this time loud and sharp. His body jerks forward, hands against the table and feet squeaking, as a sudden burst of pain and arousal shoots into his dick. “T-two!”

                The third slap is quick to follow after the second and Phichit sighs in time with the sound echoing, harsh and arousing. JJ’s hands claw against the tabletop for just a moment, mouth loose with shallow breaths when the fourth smack comes straight down. It lands right at the fold of his ass over his thighs and he jumps, knees knocking against the table and back arching at the sting. It looks painful, sounds like it burns and hurts; Phichit swallows when Seung Gil locks eyes with him, fingers slick with precum.

                “Four,” JJ moans, falling back onto the wooden top semi-reluctantly. His elbows scrape against it but it’s nothing compared to the raw burning feeling that’s crawling its way up from where Seung Gil’s hand lays. The ruler comes down again, bouncing against the right side of his ass and he quivers, teeth grinding down and eyes starting to water. Fast, faster than his brain working out numbers, the ruler strikes down again onto the other cheek and this time he does cry, feels a tear trickle down his cheek.

                “Five. Six.” Phichit lets out a breathy sigh, cupping the shape of his dick through the pleated skirt. He rubs his palm over the head, shivering with a quick intake of breath that matches the resounding smack of the ruler. JJ lets out a choked noise, nails clacking against the table top as he takes in a ragged breath. He rolls his shoulders, teeth gnawing at the bottom lip when he murmurs out a quiet “seven.”

                Eight, nine, come in rapid succession, quick smacks ringing in the room. Silence falls over them sans the panting from JJ’s mouth, his hands curling and unfurling, ass a healthy shade of pink. Phichit swallows down his moan, hand pushing down on his crumpled skirt, biting down onto his bottom lip as Seung Gil turns to him. He’s just slightly red, ears burning, when his hand comes down to pinch at JJ. A whine squeaks out of JJ’s mouth, loose, when Seung Gil pries his bottom apart to reveal his waiting hole.

                “Ten!” smacks right along it, a snapping ring that sends spit and drool along the table, a weak sob shivering JJ from his shoulders to his ass. He’s hard, so painfully hard, swallowing and groaning as cold begins to settle against his burning behind.

                Seung Gil drops the ruler onto the table, a simple clatter on the wood. His eyes slide from JJ to Phichit, growing smile on his face as he eyes Phichit’s waiting form, skirt tented so nicely on his hard dick. Crooking his fingers, Seung Gil waits as Phichit’s feet patter close enough to kiss.

                The glasses are a nuisance, unnecessary, as Seung Gil slides his tongue into Phichit’s mouth. They bump the bridge of his nose as he pulls Phichit closer, letting the Thai skater rub his length along Seung Gil’s thighs, a sharp sigh shaking his frame. Seung Gil slides his hand downward, palming the head of Phichit’s dick, drawing another groan from the other. He’s tempted to lift Phichit’s skirt up right now, suck him down to the hilt.

                Instead, Phichit grins up to Seung Gil, biting the inside of his cheek.

                “Sensei,” teasing, light, “shouldn’t we remind our students of the consequences of their actions?” Seung Gil swallows, eying the line of spit from Phichit’s mouth down to his shirt, the glimpse of his tongue running along his bottom lip. Phichit takes a step back, steadying himself against the desk, sliding a hand down the curve of JJ’s spine. JJ groans, head tilting up, red rimmed and tear stained cheek angled towards Seung Gil.

                “Sensei, I don’t think I’ve learned my lesson.” Unfair, unfair, the warmth that curls in Seung Gil’s body. He takes unsteady steps over, heels wobbly, eyes darting between Phichit’s waiting face and JJ’s curious eyes. A greedy part of him wants to take JJ against him, fuck him roughly against the table and spill his cum deep into his body, buried so far in that it won’t even be able to drip out of him when they’re done. But he’s a teacher now, supposedly controlled, and he settles for taking JJ’s hand into his, walking around the table.

                “Phichit, would you like to help me discipline your classmate?” A warm laugh bubbles up Phichit’s throat, eyes sharp, and then he’s lifting his skirt to reveal his legs. Seung Gil’s expecting pantyhose, dark, a line of red around Phichit’s waist from squeezing into him.

                He’s awarded with the sight of lace topped thigh highs, dark against Phichit’s skin, and a delicious lack of panties to cover his dripping cock. Seung Gil swallows, feeling a little more of his authority peel away as Phichit smiles, sharp, dangerous.

                “Ready whenever you are, sensei.” Seung Gil’s tempted to take Phichit against him, leave hickies along his skin, thumbprints and nails scarring his skin. JJ’s hand slides up his skirt, startling, and Seung Gil turns to stare at the messy hair of the Canadian skater glancing at him bemusedly. JJ’s hand taps the wooden desk twice, questioning, prompting a soft chuckle from Seung Gil.

                “I’m good.” Reminder, check. He unzips the back of his skirt, ridiculously short for any teacher, and steps out of his shaking heels. It’s a steadying moment before he can roll down his pair of tights, briefs, stroking along the length of his cock. JJ slides his tongue along his mouth, opening his jaws wide enough for Seung Gil to admire the length of his incisors at the ends, a perfect hole for fucking. JJ swallows, intent on saying something, surely, when he startles forward, hands slapping the table, head thrown down.

                Phichit groans, skirt pooled over JJ’s waist, as he buries himself to the hilt. His eyes slide from JJ’s gasping form to Seung Gil, cheeky, tempting.

                “Sensei, could you please hurry up?” Phichit admonishes. The irony of a student telling his teacher that isn’t lost on Seung Gil, and he grabs JJ’s face, tilting him upward. God, he looks so lovely like this, pink and needy and wet, mouth open in pants as he tries to steady himself against the table. Seung Gil runs his hands along JJ’s hair, combing upward, as he takes a step closer, letting his dick slide along JJ’s wet cheeks. His precum smears dried tears, and his fingers tighten their hold.

                “Good?” Seung Gil breathes. Phichit could break his skull with the force with which he rolls his eyes, hands steady on JJ’s waist as he pulls out. It’s impossible to tell where he is, exactly, with the long skirt pooling on the table, but his hands shake as he slowly slides back in. JJ gasps, eyes closing as he readjusts, hips twitching, red ass bared so prettily into the air. It isn’t until Phichit is fully buried back in him that he releases his breath, turning to kiss at Seung Gil’s head.

                “Good,” JJ murmurs, heated pants along Seung Gil’s dick. He makes a show of licking strips up from his balls to the head of his cock, eyes planted firmly on Seung Gil’s, before opening his mouth wide again. Seung Gil sucks in a breath, hands tightening their hold on JJ, as JJ slides down, taking him to the hilt, his hair tickling the point of JJ’s nose. They’re silent, just for a moment, before Phichit’s rolling his hips out and snapping in again.

                “Gosh, sensei! We really, uh, should hurry up!” Phichit’s vicious grin is lost in a long moan as JJ squeezes him in, clenching down, as Seung Gil lifts his head back and nearly off his dick. So pretty, so fucking pretty.

                Seung Gil wants to make him a fucking mess.

                JJ’s yelp is cut off by the sudden sensation of Seung Gil thrusting himself back into his mouth, rough, wild. Phichit startles behind him, groaning, the desk squeaking as it slides along the floor from the force of his thrust. Seung Gil snaps his hips back again, holding JJ by his hair, and then fucking himself against his mouth, hitting the back of JJ’s throat. Something loose and hungry must take hold of him, for he’s fucking JJ’s mouth relentlessly, grunting and gasping and hissing as squeaks and whimpers are pulled from JJ’s mouth, his eyes sliding shut, unable to resist the affront on both sides.

                “God, fuck, good,” Phichit whines, his voice hitching as his skirt dances along with every thrust. He’s beautiful, sweat beading at his face, eyes pinched in pleasure as a creeping flush makes its way up his throat, bobbing against the sailor collar. His hands move from gripping JJ’s waist to his ass, pulling, pinching at the sore flesh, drawing hisses and grunts from JJ that vibrate up Seung Gil’s dick. Phichit bucks, his spine curling forward, ribbon draping over the small of JJ’s back, groaning.

                Seung Gil wants to fuck them both, like this, slide his dick between theirs. The image draws a heated moan from his throat, vibrating, as his hands draw JJ back and forward again, his balls shaking with every slap of his flesh against JJ’s face. His eyes drink in the view, the blush, the lidded eyes, the wet lashes weighed down as tears begin to prick again at JJ’s eyes, the choking gasps when Seung Gil drives himself to full hilt, hitting the back of his throat relentlessly. He’s grunting, hands pulling harsh at JJ’s hair, wanting to cum on it, cum on him, in him, mark him up as his.

                Then JJ’s shooting forward onto the desk, something akin to a shriek escaping his mouth around Seung Gil’s dick, hands flying out to grasp at his blazer, scrambling for purchase. Seung Gil’s gasping, taking in the blown eyes, the drool dripping down his chin, straying gaze back to the guilty hand pinching at JJ’s ass. The one that delivers another blow to the reddened skin, pulling, slapping, making the sensitive flesh quiver.

                “You look so good like this,” Phichit’s red, immersed, completely stripped of his role as student. When his hand comes down, hard, against JJ’s thighs, JJ’s knees slam against the hollow metal edge of the desk, throat constricting tight around Seung Gil, mixture of scream and sob buried into his skin. Seung Gil hisses, feeling his knees buckle at the sensation, clenching his jaw as he fucks back into JJ’s mouth.

                It’s not a surprise when JJ’s voice mounts, his eyes hazy and unfocused from the onslaught of pleasure, hands digging into Seung Gil’s blazer. It almost hurts, a heated burn, with how harshly JJ swallows him down, throat spasm making drool and precum seep from the corners of his mouth, thoroughly wetting the surface of the desk. JJ’s shoulders freeze up, back arching to an incredible degree, Phichit shouting at how well JJ clenches down on him. The sound of his cum splattering against the table is music to Seung Gil’s ears, and he groans, burying himself impossibly deeper into JJ’s mouth.

                “Fuck, JJ, Phichit, hah, come, come on,” Seung Gil hisses under his breath, fingers digging into JJ’s scalp as his stomach tightens. He’s tempted, so incredibly tempted, to finish inside JJ’s mouth, to fuck himself to completion in that tight, wet throat. But JJ’s been so good, so eager to please, that when his weary eyes make their way up to catch Seung Gil’s gaze, he finds himself pulling out instead, shoulders shaking in suppression of his desire to cum right then and there, making an even prettier mess of JJ’s face.

                “Phichit.” Seung Gil sighs, brief irritation flashing by his face at the continued sound of Phichit’s hips slapping JJ’s, the look of pleasure evident on Phichit’s face. The other skater moans, unabashed, even as JJ’s legs quiver forward, pleading.

                “A, hah, too, wai—nn.” The steady stream of JJ’s whines and pants hit a high when Phichit rams him against the desk, toes curling and knees locking harsh. Seung Gil scowls, tapping his fingers impatiently on the surface, staring at Phichit. The Thai skater groans, eyes rolling back, coming shamelessly into JJ, hips moving relentlessly without rhythm. Seung Gil stares, mouth just slightly agape, as Phichit bows over JJ, hissing, panting.

                “JJ, Seung, Seung Giiill,” Phichit groans. When he finally steadies himself against the desk, releasing JJ’s waist, his skirt falls over the wet splash of cum. His dick swings, a trail of cum leaking onto JJ’s ass as he pants, trembling on the surface.

                 The sight of JJ’s sore ass in the air, gaping and wet, makes Seung Gil swallow. Phichit grins, sliding his hand along the hole, slipping two fingers in with ease and prying another gasp from JJ, elbows banging against the wood. His jaw snaps forward, starry eyes dizzy, tempting Seung Gil ever so to finish in his gaping mouth, sweat and tears and precum dripping.

                “Phichit.” As delicious as the sight is, Seung Gil knows that another round will push JJ too far into headspace, and that he needs a break. Luckily, Seung Gil’s been blessed with two wonderful students, the latter of which who is teasingly running his fingers along the sore skin, watching Seung Gil with crooked eyes. Teasing. Playing.

                “Yes, sensei?” The hem of his shirt’s risen up, baring his navel. That’s right—hadn’t Seung Gil needed to punish him as well?

                “Phichit,” Seung Gil repeats, voice a purr. His gaze narrows, hand tightening in JJ’s hair, as he strokes his dick. Phichit groans, mouthwatering at the sight, though he doesn’t take a step forward. “Take off your skirt.”

                “Isn’t that a bit much, sensei?” Phichit retorts, though he unzips and shimmies off the skirt in a matter of seconds. Half nude, his thighs are sticky and flushed from fucking JJ, and he drags a slow hand up from his balls to his dick. Seung Gil bites down on his lip, feeling the heat he so sharply pushed down swirl again in his stomach.

                “I want to fuck you against the wall,” slips out of his mouth. Phichit gapes for a moment, taken aback, smile wiped, before a creeping flush makes its way up his collar bones to his ears. Phichit takes careful steps closer, shoes pattering on the floor, hips swaying side to side, mesmerizing. By the time he places a hand on Seung Gil, breath just a gentle warmth on his throat, Seung Gil feels fit to burst.

                “Naughty, sensei,” husky, wanting. A shiver shakes Seung Gil, his eyes wandering back down to Phichit’s spent cock. What worry could form in his mind is swallowed down by an insistent tongue in his mouth, Phichit’s heady moans sending vibrations along his teeth down to his dick. It jumps in response to Phichit smoothing down his hand on his thigh, grasping Seung Gil’s hand to come closer to his sticky thighs. When his finger slips into Phichit’s waiting hole, it slides in with ease, and he gasps into Phichit’s mouth.

                Lubed up, ready, sensitive. Phichit’s smile is telling enough, and even Seung Gil can’t hide the sharp bark of laughter that ripples through him.

                How did he manage to acquire such naughty students?

                “It won’t be too much?” Even as he says those words, Seung Gil lifts one of Phichit’s legs to hook properly around his waist, sliding his dick close to Phichit’s dripping entrance. The smile on his lover’s face doesn’t fade, trusting, wanting, and then Phichit’s lowering himself onto Seung Gil’s cock, eyes alight with pleasure.

                “Been waiting, hah, for this,” Phichit corrects him. The back of his thigh bumps against the desk, lace catching on the corner and tearing as Phichit shifts, burying Seung Gil deeper into himself. He sighs, high, full, squeezing himself further down on Seung Gil’s waiting dick. It’s a struggle to not cum simply at the sight of Phichit’s sweating face, eyes drawn down to the decreasing space stopping Phichit from burying himself to the hilt.

                “Fuck,” Seung Gil groans, when Phichit finally does make his way onto him. His hands grapple and dig into his ass, feeling the muscles tighten as they adjust to the intrusion, and Seung Gil bites Phichit’s neck. Part of his collar ends up in his mouth, but it’s nothing more than a cheap uniform, and Seung Gil finds himself digging into the fabric to catch onto Phichit’s skin. The responding quiver from Phichit is glorious, enticing, drawing Seung Gil closer to his finish.

                He’s tempted, so goddamn tempted, to cum right then and there inside Phichit. Seung Gil finds that he deserves it, managing to make it through not climaxing in JJ’s waiting mouth, but the temptation of fucking Phichit well and truly well against the blackboard has him swallowing down the heat burning inside him.

                “Hey, hey, Seung Gil, sensei,” Phichit’s pants are a litter of words and whines, his eyes growing unfocused as he squeezes down on Seung Gil’s cock. Seung Gil narrows in on him, on his pants, on his glassy eyes, on how Phichit’s leg rises to hook around his waist, length buried so well in him. Every movement draws a tremble from his body, and even then, he manages to press his lips against Seung Gil’s.

                “Fuck me, sensei.” What little self-control left within Seung Gil melts entirely at the breathy word, sung straight into his ear. Red hot and eager to please, Seung Gil turns so that Phichit is properly angled against the board, pressing his weight onto the wall. Taking in a careful breath, Seung Gil slides his dick out, feeling Phichit shake around him, cold air rushing in to take the place where his dick was resting. Breath in. Breath out.

                His hips slam into Phichit, making Phichit’s back snap against the board, rattling dangerously as Phichit shouts. Seung Gil growls, needy, heated, hands digging crescent moons into Phichit’s thighs as his hips snap forward and back, unbearably deep into Phichit’s tight ass. Wanton moans and shouts force Phichit’s mouth wide open, his eyes wide as his hair, slick with sweat, stick to the board around him. So pretty, so fucking pretty, forcing Seung Gil to bite at his mouth.

                “Sensei, sensei, Seung, Seung Gil, oh, oh!” Phichit’s gasps are high and needy as his dick bobs against Seung Gil’s stomach, beginning to harden again. It’s incredibly easy to slip his hand down against the head of Phichit’s cock, grinding harshly on the beading slit on top, just to hear Phichit scream, head thrown back. His muscles tighten around Seung Gil, so wet, so eager, a perfect hole for him to fuck into.

                “Phichit, god, so fucking tight, so good,” Seung Gil’s words are a litter of praises and pants, hand angling Phichit to dig into him ever deeper. Based off the shriek and scrambling of Phichit’s legs hastening around his waist, he’s just fucked directly against his sensitive bundle of nerves. Grinning, ferocious, hungry, Seung Gil forces Phichit against the board, fucking sharp and fast against the same spot, drawing deafening shouts and screams from the Thai skater.

                “Fuck!” Lights spark in Seung Gil’s mind as his thighs tighten, hips burying himself deep into Phichit, pleasure overwhelming. His words are lost in a garbled moan, teeth digging into the shiny white ribbon tied around Phichit’s collar, soaking it in sweat and spit. His legs shake, unable to still as he pounds squirts of cum into Phichit, filling him up with warm semen.

                By the time Seung Gil is able to flicker his eyes back up to Phichit’s face, he can only note the blown wide pupils and red cheeks, the tongue hanging loose from Phichit’s lips as he pants. Seung Gil draws hand down, expecting to finish Phichit a second time, only to meet a spent cock, cooling cum spattered on Phichit’s shirt. He quirks an eyebrow at the surprisingly fast performance, tempted to tease Phichit for it, when a hand touches his face. Turning, his lips are quickly caught with a gentle huff, JJ pressing insistently at his mouth.

                “Felt forgotten, for a second there.” The mock jealousy in his words are betrayed by the warmth in his eyes, the unsteady gait in his legs. JJ rests against the desk, skirt still crumpled around his waist, cum leaking out onto the desk, his thighs, pooling underneath him. His dick is half hard again, pretty against his red cheeks, and he angles back to present a better view. Seung Gil swallows, feeling his heart thrum, suddenly wishing that they were a little closer to home.

                “Hey, sensei,” teasing, light, “I have a problem I want you to help me with.”

                They’re never going to finish putting away these textbooks.

Chapter Text

            “You are truly perverse.”

            Sothis’ words ring in Byleth’s ears, though she finds herself shrugging them off with familiarity. After years of hearing Sothis, and now months of hearing her judgement specifically, Byleth’s grown used to the grumbling goddess, irritation palpable as she recedes from yet another perverse scene.

            Well, to be fair, she’s not wrong.

            The other Byleth, her brother, is not so lucky, visibly flinching at the scolding. Byleth could scoff at his reaction, knowing that he’s never been quite as good at taking critism as her—something Jeralt had quickly realized and laughed over. He squirms now in place, eyes flickering from the ground to Byleth, uncertain. She grins.


            Byleth would never consider herself something so arbitrary in the past, but there’s few other words to describe the scene before her.

            Edelgard makes a pretty picture as she moans, palming one hand on her breasts, rocking herself against Byleth’s muscular thigh. Her hair is loose of those pesky horns and buns she usually adorns in combat, now nude of all armor, fabric, just her in the nude, hips trembling as she grinds her clit down against Byleth’s tights. Her eyes, however, are stuck on the three other members in the room.

            Claude is awfully loud like this, his moans high and breathless as his ass shakes where it rests on Dimitri’s face, the blonde suckling, kissing and nipping along the skin as though starved. He must be, truly, frustrated, dick red and needy, ring restricting him from cumming anytime soon. Byleth, her brother, pants from his position on Dimitri’s stomach, his ass pressed against his dick, tongue exploring Claude’s mouth, wet noises and drool spilling from their union. His hands pinch and pull at Claude’s nipples, surprisingly pierced and awfully pretty on his dark skin, drawing another moan from Claude’s lips, kissed red and raw.

            Byleth wants to pull him to the floor, make Claude kiss at her clit, tongue lapping along her cunt. He’s got one of the best mouths in the room, a fact they’re all properly aware of at this point—as though hearing her thoughts, Claude’s eyes flicker to her, lidded, teasing.

            Her hands tighten their grip on Edelgard’s wrists, drawing her empress’ eyes back to her.

            “Edel,” Byleth warns, and then she’s swallowing Edelgard up, tongue and teeth gnashing at her lips. Edelgard groans, shivering, her thighs tightening around Byleth’s as her hips pick up speed. She’s wet, so fucking wet, from Byleth fingering her from the moment they entered the room, forcing Edelgard’s leg up as she punched yelps and screams from her empress. Her brother had watched, knowing that Edelgard got all the needier with eyes on her, cunt slick against Byleth’s fingers.

            “Byleth, Byleth, professor,” Edelgard sings, truly a beauty, as her hips falter in rhythm. A shout is strangled out of her when Byleth presses her fingers against her clit, drawing small circles on the sensitive nub, forcing shivers to wrack her delicate frame. Edelgard’s eyes flicker, blinking fast as pleasure mounts within her, threatening her to cum again on Byleth’s fingers.

            “Are you going to cum again, princess?” What could be interpreted as a gentle pet name comes out sneering, Byleth biting at Edelgard’s lips. She’s always meaner, a little rougher, when they get all together like this, three royal members and their old professors—more like three dogs in heat and their owners. The comparison draws a smirk on Byleth’s face as she slides two fingers back into Edelgard’s cunt, drawing a high sigh building into shriek.

            “Byleth, wait, oh!” Edelgard’s words are lost in a scream as her back arches, vagina clenching down onto Byleth’s fingers. Her eyes water, cheeks a brilliant pink against her pale skin, and Byleth leans down to take one of her breasts into her mouth, biting angrily at the flesh. It draws blood, her teeth an indentation into the skin, and Byleth laps at the red beginning to pool at the surface as Edelgard shakes above her.

            “How mean.” Byleth’s eyes snap to Claude, his voice floating over as he sighs, arms locked around her twin’s neck, eyes twinkling. Dimitri has obviously not done a thorough enough job if Claude’s still able to speak coherent sentences, though the moans that spill from his mouth speak to how deeply Dimitri’s tongue has pressed into him. “Princess even asked you to wait.”

            Byleth grunts, his fingers twisting Claude’s nipple, dragging his teeth along his exposed nape. Claude sighs, pleasant, smug, as his hand drags Byleth by the hair, pressing kisses against the shell of his ear. It’s enough to draw a shaking groan from Byleth, though not loud enough to overcome the warbling screams from Edelgard.

            Her majesty’s white hair spills so delicately over her shoulders, sticky with sweat to the skin. She peers upward at Byleth, uncertain, shaking. The temptation to wring her dry with another orgasm following the other so soon is itching at Byleth, and yet, her curiosity rings stronger. Even within the recess of her mind, she can hear Sothis’ rumbling confusion, her twin’s matching. Byleth had chosen not to discuss this with either of them.

            Not even with Edelgard herself.

            “Edelgard,” she is unable to quell the smirk tugging so at her lips. Edelgard’s breaths are shaky, her eyes unsteady as they focus on Byleth’s moving mouth. Even so, she nods. “Edelgard, do you trust me?”

            “Huh? O-Of course I do, Byleth!” Confusion flickers across Edelgard’s face, followed quickly by uncertainty, and, perhaps most important of all, heat. This wouldn’t be the first time Byleth’s pulled a trick out during sex, and it would certainly not be the last. As joyful as it is to wring patient moans and gasps from Edelgard during their usual bedding, Byleth finds it much, much more exciting to try something new.

            Even if that something new is picking up Edelgard by her thighs, feeling her slick dripping from her cunt down onto Byleth’s fingers, and walking to the door. With a careful hand maneuvering Edelgard’s weight, eyes still on her beloved princess, she pries the door open, and steps out.

            “Byleth?” Her twin shouts, followed quickly by Claude’s laughter. She shoots a smirk at them both, turning back to Edelgard, kissing her softly on the lips. Just one step out of the door, and Edelgard’s already shaking, cunt unbelievably wet against Byleth’s fingers. Delicious.

            “Byleth, what…?” Edelgard’s voice is high, nervous, excited. She’s figuring it out, piecing together what clicked for Byleth and Claude just a moment before. Byleth could hold her in place, rock her against her fingers as her mind moves, whirring, trembling.

            Instead, she drops Edelgard to the ground, and shuts the door behind her.

            “Byleth!” Her brother’s scolding is lost on deaf ears, and Byleth grins as she shimmies to the bed. Claude’s mouth is quirked upward in amusement, clearly intrigued by her experiment, and she pushes past her twin to grasp at his face, pulling him forward to bite at his lips. He moans, relenting, easy, always so pliable under her touch. He bows to her faster than to anyone else, and she relishes in the victory.

            Even more so when she reaches down to pinch at his cock, feeling it jump at the sensation.

            “I want to fuck you,” she purrs. Claude laughs, red in the cheeks, eyes heavy as he rolls his hips on Dimitri’s face. Nearly a river of precum and spit have spilled down Dimitri’s chin, pooling onto his neck and below him on the bed, the sight tempting Byleth to sit on him as well, pry his tired jaw open to eat her out as well. But, well, she’s always been a bit kinder to Dimitri, and she settles on grabbing Claude’s ass instead, forcing him up.

            “Byleth.” Testy, testy. Her brother raises an eyebrow at her, his cock red and weeping. Pity might pull at her strings if he weren’t her brother; instead, her smirk only widens, teeth flashing as she pulls Claude fully off Dimitri’s tongue.

            The whine from Dimitri is lovely, his eye flickering to her uncertainly. As fond as she is for him, or perhaps as a result of it, he’s never really had to deal with her insatiable hungry and curiosity in bed. Well, unfortunately for him, he had to be sandwiches between the person she loves messing with the most, her brother, and the darling devil in her arms who she so lovingly loves to fuck silly.

            Speaking of, Claude presses his teeth against her neck, eyebrows drawn up, teasing. She grins.

            So much fun.

            “Dimitri,” sing-song, dangerous. He swallows at her call. “You did such a good job. Don’t you think so, Byleth?” Her brother raises a brow at her, clearly unimpressed, though his hard cock says otherwise. It’s simple enough to drag Claude to the side, letting her brother crawl close to Dimitri’s trembling form.

            “Dimitri,” Byleth murmurs, pressing a kiss against his majesty’s lips. Always so soft and sweet, that one, so much so that Byleth can hardly believe that they’re siblings, much less twins. “Can I fuck you?”

            “Cute.” Claude grins into Byleth’s shoulder, a hand slipping down to touch her through her shorts. Cheeky, this one, and she slaps his hand away, her other smacking his ass. He startles forward, catching himself onto the mattress, just to line himself up with Dimitri’s raised hips, needy dick leaking around the ring holding his climax hostage.

            “Dimitri, so good,” Byleth sighs as he slides into Dimitri’s waiting ass, eyes squeezed shut from how tight Dimitri is. Dimitri grunts, hands curling into the blankets beneath them, undoubtedly tearing holes into yet another poor scrap of cloth. Slow, centimeter by centimeter, Byleth sinks into his greedy hole, spasming around his length. Dimitri keens, high, loud, a near whistle in the air as his back bows from the pressure pressing inside of him.

            He makes a lovely sight like this, jaw loose and wet from eating Claude out, nipples pink and splattered with bite and nail marks, courtesy of Byleth when he had entered the door. Sweet as she teases her twin for, she isn’t the only one who gets a little crueler when they’re all together.

            It’s just a little competition, a little fun. Made even more so when she slaps Claude’s ass again, shit-eating grin on her face.

            “Why don’t you pay him back for getting you prepped?” Realization flickers in Claude’s eyes, no doubt labeling her as cruel for the idea, though the smirk on his face indicates otherwise. It’s with a slow crawl and unnecessary swing of his hips that he makes his way over to Dimitri’s panting form.

            “Hey, Dimi,” Claude calls. Dimitri’s eye quivers, unsteady as it turns to his red cock to Claude’s face, looming overhead. “Want to suck you off, is that okay?”

            Both Byleth and Dimitri groan at the prospect, the former rutting his hips just slightly against Dimitri. Dimitri yelps at the sensation, arm locking, mouth shaking as spit pools at his lips. Gentle, always so gentle, Byleth wraps his arms around Dimitri’s waists, angling him to press further into him. Dimitri groans, breath forced out of him with every movement, twitching and clenching.

            When Claude presses his lips against his cock, he shouts.

            “Tha-That’s!” His word is lost in a groan behind another thrust, Byleth mouthing along his skin. Dimitri’s back arches, powerful thighs shaking as he raises his hips, filling himself up with Byleth’s lengths. “Byleth, you’re, you’re—uh!”

            “Who, me?” Byleth sing-songs, prompting a roll of eyes from her twin. His hips snap forward twice in succession, drawing another mewling sigh from Dimitri turned into a pitched shout from Claude finally, properly slipping him into his mouth. Byleth’s hands trail up from his waist back to his nipples, scratching again at the skin, pinching one and admiring how well it pulls under his touch, pink, greedy.

            When he releases, letting it snap back against Dimitri’s skin, the moan echoing from Dimitri’s mouth is heavenly. Byleth wants to eat him up. It must be his sister’s influence, judging from the heated grin stretched on her face as she fixes the strap on tied to her waist. Shorts and tights off, though, he notes, she didn’t bother removing her boots. His thoughts are interrupted by Dimitri suddenly clenching down on him, hard, grinding his ass against his thighs, moaning.

            “Don’t get distracted,” Byleth scolds her brother. He would probably glare at her if he wasn’t occupied with properly fucking Dimitri again, pinching and pulling at his skin. She shifts back onto the bed, making it creak under their weight, fingers digging into Claude’s thighs.

            Wonderfully obedient, his hips raise in return. Clearly Dimitri did a fantastic job eating him out, his hole gaping wet and needy, twitching as she spits on it. Claude jerks, his gasp a vibration that travels up Dimitri, pulling another groan from the prince’s mouth. Byleth could laugh, shoving two fingers into Claude without any resistance, scissoring and crooking them. His hips startle and shake around her, pulling forward, though her arm grasps hard at his thighs and pulls him sharp against her fingers. This time she can hear his gasp, nearly pulled off Dimitri’s dick, hitting him in the cheek.

            “Please, please, please,” Dimitri whines, voice high as Byleth begins to pick up actual speed, thrusting deep within him. Claude resumes suckling at his cock, tongue running over the sensitive head, before taking him back in fully until Dimitri comes to rest at the back of his throat. Neat trick, that one, made ever more pleasurable with Claude’s hands sliding from Dimitri’s balls back to his greedy hole, sliding one along Byleth’s dick, prompting heady groans form them both. Dimitri jerks, eyes slipping shut as he shouts.

            “So good for us, Dimitri.” Byleth would bet that he would have come from that, if not for the cock ring she slipped around him earlier. She pulls her fingers out from Claude, wet with spit and lube, before lining herself up at his entrance. She waits, just her tip barely pressing into him, until his head angles her way, a brow raised.

            Get on with it. She sneers.

            “Fuck!” Claude’s shout is drowned out as he slams against Dimitri’s hips, choking, sputtering, Dimitri well and truly buried into his throat as deeply as Byleth in him. Byleth could cackle, vicious, cruel, as she snaps his hips back onto the strap, pushing back in relentlessly. Not a moment to adjust, nor a moment to rest. Her hands pinch at his ass, bouncy, fruitful, before raising one arm and spanking it. Claude groans, heavy, shaking arms steadying him back before her hand comes back down, choking him further onto Dimitri. It pries groans from all the males on the bed, needy, a beautiful chain reaction, sparking delicious warmth in Byleth as she stares down at them.

            “Please, oh, Byleth, Byleth, Claude, Byleth,” Dimitri begs. His head bows as Byleth suckles and bites on his shoulder, a trail of spit from his collar bone to his underarm, hands scratching and tugging at every centimeter of skin, leaving angry red lines in his wake. His tongue pokes out of his open mouth, unable to close from the line of needy pants and begging, hips twitching with every thrust of Byleth’s dick, every swirl of Claude’s tongue. The pressing of Claude’s finger, one, two, scissoring against his sensitive entrance makes his vision hazy.

            “Hmm, I don’t know, Byleth. Should we let him cum?” Byleth throws her head back in laughter at her twin’s words. Clearly, she’s been a bad influence on him, if he’s refusing to relent on punching noises out of Dimitri with every thrust. She pulls Claude flush to her form, his ass an angry red from her spanking, and there’s little doubt in her mind from his shaking shoulders that he’s started to cry.

            “I don’t know, Byleth. He should wait for Claude, shouldn’t he, since he was supposed to properly eat Claude out.” Dimitri sobs at the words, hands tightening in the sheets, truly dragging holes into the surface. Her twin hums, considering, adjusting himself to better sit under Dimitri, thrusting upward. He must have hit something, based off the shout and crumpled noise from Dimitri, the noise of torn fabric echoing in the room.

            “Then you’d better fuck him properly,” Byleth scolds, eying his sister. She rolls her eyes, slipping her hands under Claude to pinch at his skin, the piercings hanging from his nipples. He moans, drawing another sob from Dimitri, as she smacks against him, strap digging deliciously into his greedy hole.

            “Aren’t I? Come on, now, Claude, aren’t I fucking you so well?” She pulls at the rings, slides her hands downward, nails dragging along his skin. Her hips straighten, angry, powerful, and when she slams in him again the sob comes from him and Dimitri both.

            “Please, I, please, ha, hah, plea—ah” Dimitri sobs, truly lost for words, thighs twitching around Claude’s head. Byleth grapples with his blonde hair, snapping his head back, capturing his words in a heated kiss that’s all teeth. His other hand comes down to bury itself in Claude’s hair, pulling, drawing a hiss that quickly descends into a breathless moan from Byleth crooking herself just right.

            “Look,” she purrs, digging her nails in the small of Claude’s back, “at how well you take me. Some king you are,” her hips thrust in with quick succession, making Claude arch, red flushed from his ears to his shoulders, “taking your professor so well. Look at how,” she grunts, pulling back before snapping forward hard enough to force Claude further onto Dimitri’s cock, a spew of coughs interrupting his stream of moans, “fucking greedy your hole is.”

            “What are you— a king or a whore?” The words are the final straw, Claude’s shout lost against Dimitri’s sobbing, his shoulders tight as orgasm wracks his body. Relentless, Byleth continues thrusting against him, fucking him against Dimitri.

            “So mean,” Byleth laughs, though his eyes are heavy on his sister as his hips pound into Dimitri. Clearly he hasn’t learned enough from her, because his hand trails down to Dimitri’s length, pressing down on the clasp of the cock ring. It pops open, loose.

            “I!” Dimitri’s warning is short, warbling, before his eyes crane shut, jaw shaking as he finally, finally, makes it to orgasm. Byleth continues rocking against him, hand palming his quivering form, kissing Dimitri’s shoulders and neck as he watches him cum into and against Claude’s face, cum and spit spilling from the other’s mouth.

            “You’re too nice,” Byleth chastises, though her tone is soft, kinder, as she pulls out of Claude. His legs, without her hands to steady him, collapse against the bed, knees bowed and head slipping off Dimitri’s dick. From here, she can properly see his face, tears and spit and snot dribbling down to mix with the streaks of semen on his face, overflowing. He’s panting, eyes blown wide, tongue poking out of his mouth. She swallows.

            “Edelgard,” Byleth reminds her, brow raised, arm careful to balance Dimitri’s exhausted form on his lap. She grins, razor sharp teeth, spinning from her place on the bed. With a few simple snaps, she slides the strap off her form, letting it drop to the floor behind her.

            Goddess, she has the best ideas.

            Edelgard is, surprisingly, not right in front of the door. Or, perhaps, not so surprisingly, as she’s hiding behind a potted plant two steps down. It’s pretty much a piss-poor disguise, however, because Byleth can pretty much see her entire form.

            Including her dripping puss, leaking enough to pool on the floor under her.

            “B-Byleth?” And oh, her voice trembles as her eyes lock onto Byleth, every breath a pant. It’s incredibly tempting to take her here and now, just fuck into her with her strap before cleaning her up with Byleth’s tongue, just to draw climax after climax from Edelgard’s form.

            But, well, she’s a little mean.

            “Edelgard,” her intentions must be laughingly obvious, from the way Edelgard’s breath hitches, arms crossing before her chest, bare protection. “Come here.”

            Edelgard stands, careful, wobbling, a line of slick from her vagina dripping down her thighs. Byleth licks her lips, hungry, wanting. She could be nice, just this once.

            “Byleth?” Oh, but how pretty Edelgard sounds, obedient like this.

            Byleth places her hands on her hips, still at the border of the door. Here, anyone can see them, stumble upon them, though she doubts it if no one’s come already from the volume of Dimitri and Claude earlier. Their friends had learned quite a bit ago to avoid this certain section when reunions were scheduled.

            That doesn’t mean they don’t risk an uninformed servant or two from stumbling in, and it’s that exact risk that makes Byleth all the more eager to slide her leg forward, boot a clack on the ground. Edelgard looks at her, eyes flickering between Byleth’s lips and her foot, uncertain.

            “If you want to come in,” and she does, she must, the trembling of her hips, “clean me up, first.”

            Realization finally comes to light in Edelgard’s eyes, and she flushes deep, shame and curiosity and heat warming her cheeks. It isn’t the first, nor will it be the last, that Byleth has had her empress do something utterly filthy, shameful, for the joyful humiliation of knowing the empress has done it. That Edelgard, for all her glory, for all her power, is just another horny human, descending onto her hands and knees, tongue licking the dirty sides of Byleth’s boot.

            The sight makes her shiver. She should get Claude and Dimitri to do the same.

            “Do a good job,” Byleth reminds her, and Edelgard moans, shoulders shaking as she licks a stripe from Byleth’s sole to the top of her boot. Her head cranes upward, eyes pleading, obedient, as she returns to lick along the bottom of Byleth’s boots. Unknown to her, Byleth’s cleaned her shoes earlier the day before, not wanting to risk any unknowns into any of her lover’s mouths. Still, a day of walking within castle grounds has made them a little dirtier, a bit dustier, and it’s a delightful sight to see Edelgard lap at her boots regardless.

            Her thighs tremble as she crawls closer, spit dribbling along the floor to the other boot. Byleth moans, drinking the view in, as Edelgard’s hair pools around her head. It’s tempting to raise one foot and step on her pretty locks, drag dirt and mud into her white hair, just to see her properly messed up. Dirty.

            “What a filthy empress.”

            Edelgard moans at the words. Her mouth begins to falter, tongue beginning to tire and dry from the repetitive movements, and Byleth finally takes a step back. Edelgard falls forward, surprise evident on her face from the early retreat, but, well, Byleth’s been wet enough to fill a river from playing with Claude and Dimitri, and she hasn’t been properly satisfied yet.

            “Why don’t you come in, princess?” Edelgard’s eyes are on the ground as she crawls in, careful, allowing Byleth’s eyes to sweep a view of her dripping puss, slick from her vagina to her knees. It isn’t until Edelgard is fully in that Byleth tugs the door shut, glancing over to the bed.

            “What, really?” She groans. Byleth stares back at her, unimpressed, his dick clearly spent at some point when she left the room. Claude and Dimitri rest on the bed besides him, now wiped clean from cum and spit and blood, balled up rags resting on the floor besides them. Dimitri’s eyes are closed, surely asleep from exhaustion from being on the edge for so long, though Claude pries his open to glance at Byleth.

            When he raises his neck enough to peer at Edelgard, surprise flickering on his face, he laughs. His throat is hoarse, fucked well by Dimitri, and perhaps her brother, falling back onto the bed.

            “They offered,” Byleth responds, shrugging. Well, clearly she was half right, though she really should have guessed that Dimitri would want to finish her brother off. Ridiculously responsible, even in bed.

            “Well,” she sighs, plan only partly dented in, “guess it’s you and me, Edelgard.” Hunger drops her voice low, drawing a shiver from Edelgard. Byleth steps closer, kneeling to take Edelgard into her arms. Her empress squeaks, arms tightening onto Byleth, as Byleth lifts Edelgard from the floor and drops her onto the bed. Dimitri groans, hips shifting, making room for them.

            “B-Byleth?” Byleth smirks, climbing on top of Edelgard, letting her vagina hang overhead. She had intended on having Byleth fuck Edelgard while she ate her out, but well, she could still do half of it. Edelgard’s stammering words are quickly cut off by Byleth sitting on her face, moaning softly, grinding down.

            It’s pathetically easy to insert two fingers into Edelgard, wet as she is. Byleth licks a stripe along her lips, gaining a moan that vibrates through her own cunt. She grins, pressing her tongue insistently against Edelgard, fingering beginning to scissor and curl. Edelgard gasps, thighs tightening, her own mouth panting warm breaths against Byleth, tongue entering Byleth’s puss.

            Goddess, Byleth really does have the best ideas.

            Edelgard climaxes within a matter of minutes, already wet and needy from being played with prior to being placed outside. Byleth pulls screams from her highness as her lips come to suck on Edelgard’s clit, fingers roughly pushing inside her. Edelgard’s teeth brush against her clit, just slightly, and Byleth seizes, feeling herself drip as warmth curdles in her stomach. Three fingers pry her open, and she pants, bouncing against Edelgard’s face, her hand slipping down to pinch at her clit. She orgasms with a grunt, hips squeezing Edelgard, a moan vibrating along Edelgard’s legs.

            “Fuck,” Byleth pants as the bed creaks under her, world dimming as her limbs begin to regain feeling. She rises to her knees, aware of Edelgard’s slick on her face, leaving wet spots on the bed. She turns, moving to the side, only for Byleth to hand her a rag.

            “Clean yourself up,” he chides, though grinning. She laughs, hearing her voice a little hoarse, and paws at herself with the rag with two sweeps before returning to Edelgard’s tired form. Her highness breathes deeply, eyes barely open, entire lower body wet with fluid. Byleth is careful to wipe at her face first before moving down, drawing soft moans and trembling from Edelgard at the sensation.

            They are quiet for a moment, just Byleth finishing her cleaning, balling the rag up to join the others on the floor. She breaths, feeling blissful soreness pull at her muscles, knowing that she is at peace.

            “I’m so fucking tired.”

            “Same.” “Same.”

            Her brother cracks first, chortling, before she joins, followed by weak chuckles and groans from the lords still on the bed. Claude, the prompter of the conversation, rolls over onto Dimitri, burying his head against his nape. Edelgard sighs, clawing her way up into Dimitri’s other arm, tucking herself securely at his side. By the time both Byleths quiet, they are together, breathing softly.

            They share a smile, and in the recesses of their mind, even Sothis hums her pleasure.

Chapter Text

            It may be too blunt to say that Edelgard has barely changed at all in five years past, and yet, Byleth cannot help the thought slipping from her mouth, prompting a joyous chuckle from her majesty.

            Edelgard plays with the hem of her shorts, fitting her remarkably well despite their old age. Her breasts no longer fit quite into her old top, blouse buttons struggling to fit along her chest, and she’s alike given up on tossing on her jacket after realizing her arms wouldn’t fit through. She’s got her new cape, fitted shoulder ornaments and all, tucked over her shoulders instead. Her old tights, glossy red, are spread wide across her thighs and calves as she turns in the mirror, admiring herself.

            “Not quite the same look. What do you think, professor?” Edelgard’s cape flows as she twirls, bringing her arms out to grasp either end of her cape. Byleth laughs and claps her hands at the display, cheering softly when Edelgard stills to a stop with a crossing of her calves, bowing deeply.

            “I think you look lovely.” It is the truth. Years gone by has done nothing to diminish Edelgard’s nature allure, her white hair flowing gently to frame her face. If anything, it has only made her very more elegant, with a stronger set in her shoulders, a starker line from her breasts to her waist to her hips. Her face, often hardened from the chill of war, is softer here, her and Byleth tucked away in an old classroom in Garreg Mach, playing pretend with remnants of their past.

            “You’re so kind, Byleth,” Edelgard sighs. Byleth shrugs, shaking her head as she picks at her own attire. Unlike Edelgard, her change was merely the coloration of her hair, from a cerulean blue to a light green reminiscent of her once friends in the school. They play here now, knowing that in less than a week’s time they will have to take up arms yet again, preparing themselves for another slaughter in the name of victory.

            Conflict, the only home Byleth has ever known.

            War, the only mercy Edelgard can give.

            Edelgard gives another swirl at herself in the mirror, humming as she pats down at her chest. The button gaping only makes her growth more prominent, and it is easy enough to notice Byleth’s line of sight in the reflection of the mirror. Edelgard huffs a laugh, turning again to tease her beloved.

            “Where is your eye wandering, I wonder, professor?” An age-old name that seems to sweeten her tongue.

            Byleth startles, eyes widening just a smidge before falling to her usual stony face. She’s gentler now, quite a bit easier to read, and Edelgard revels in the change. It must be trust, and fate, and nothing more than the simple promise of desire that warms her cheeks.

            She is a crimson flower, and Byleth’s to take.

            “Your breasts.” Straightforward, not curt, just blunt. Edelgard stifles her giggles, though her arms coming up only further emphasizes her growth. Though otherwise her body hasn’t changed quite so much, something that only mildly pricks at her when glancing at Dorothea’s and Bernadetta’s… growths, she’s come to appreciate that at the very least she grew in an area that Edelgard thought would never improve. Byleth was quite popular in the academy those years back, and it wasn’t just for her teaching skills.

            But well, here they are now, and Edelgard has Byleth all for herself.

            “Why, professor, how scandalous.” Edelgard’s voice ticks upward, teasing, and she flicks open the struggling button barely keeping the blouse together at her breasts. Now open, her bare flesh in the air, she shivers at the interest dawning on Byleth’s face. “What would the nobles say?”

            Must less the church. Edelgard files that little tidbit to herself, just a little extra vengeance.

            “Bad things, probably.” The shrug from Byleth is casual, though her arms tighten in impatience. It’s rare for her to wait for Edelgard, usually the first to grasp her empress and kiss her in a frenzy, though her uniform must really be playing tricks on Byleth’s mind. It is certainly true that, though there were often teasing glances and remarks from her professor, Byleth had never touched her as teacher and student.

            It’s a good thing they’re no longer as such, even with Edelgard in her tight garb.

            “So callous. Shouldn’t you protect me from such rude words?” A game that she never had a chance to play, back then. Edelgard wouldn’t call her mischievous, scheming, all words she attributes more to a certain half blood from another nation. Still, a giddy playfulness at adorning her old uniform has her stomach in knots, and she extends her hand into the air. “Kiss me, professor.”

            Byleth obeys, pressing her lips against Edelgard’s palm, before leaning back and taking her fingers into her mouth. Edelgard startles, moaning, staring while Byleth fixes her hair behind her ears to better focus on licking Edelgard’s individual digits.

            “Byleth, you shouldn’t…” her words are lost in another gasp as Byleth places both hands on her thighs, digging in sharply with her nails. Forceful, rude, and yet Edelgard can’t help the little breathiness overtake her voice. Byleth slides her tongue upward, past her palm and wrist to nip at her blouse, tugging just slightly before releasing.

            “Take it off.” Commanding, powerful, knowing that Edelgard is just a quiver in her path. Edelgard’s hands, one slick with spit, struggle to undo her remaining buttons. Byleth leans up, blowing and kissing on her nape, doing nothing to reduce her shivers.

            Her fingers finally manage to undo the final button, and then Byleth is tearing it down her shoulders, taking a heavy bite of her exposed skin. Edelgard yelps, loud, shrill, her hand instinctively coming down to smack at Byleth’s back. Byleth refuses to release her skin, drawing blood, before licking at the red flesh. Edelgard shivers, in pleasure and pain, when Byleth slips down to lick at her underarm.

            “By-Professor! Don’t, I’m dirty!” Her protests fall on deaf ears. Byleth simply hums and licks at her armpits, lined with dusts of hair. Edelgard flushes, shame and pleasure running blood to her face, the knowledge that she hadn’t had time for a proper bath due to the terrors of war meaning her body is unclean. Yet, Byleth simply drags her tongue from one side to the other, leaving Edelgard panting as spit dries on her skin.

            Edelgard begins to shimmy off her pants, grunting in realization at how tight they are on her now. Perhaps she really did grow in her bottom regions, though her hope is rather unnecessary when her shorts refuse to go down. Byleth kisses the bend of her side, the bottoms of her ribs, and Edelgard sighs.

            “Byleth, I need to get my shorts off.” Amusement clouds her words, doubly so when Byleth pulls away only to raise an unimpressed brow at her. Edelgard laughs, trying to wedge her fingers into the shorts in display of the fit. “See?”

            “I do.” With that, Byleth’s hands move to grab the hem of the shorts, and in one swift motion, tears them off Edelgard’s legs. Literally, based off the pitched ripping sound immediately following. Edelgard yelps, though she has nary a moment to mourn her old shorts before Byleth’s tearing a hole in her red tights.

            “Byleth!” What scolding flooded her brain is immediately erased by the sensation of Byleth flicking her tongue against her through her panties. Edelgard flushes, knowing they too are dirty, though it’s not enough to stop her wanton moans drifting out of her. She tries to cover her mouth with her hands, though it’s impossible when Byleth simply grabs at her wrists.

            “I want to hear you.” Request, and then return to her task. Edelgard moans, unable to stop herself from grinding onto Byleth’s face, the nose of her tactician poking at her groin. She shifts her hands closer to Byleth’s hair, one tugging at the locks, the other pulling Byleth back. Annoyance flickers through Byleth’s face until Edelgard pinches at the width of her panties, pulling them to the side to bare her wet sex.

            “Pro-professor,” oddly difficult to remember her title with the haze settling in Edelgard’s mind, “please lick me.”

            Amusement flashes by when Byleth lowers her head back onto Edelgard, tongue immediately tracing patterns at her lips. Edelgard moans, hips clenching, as she rocks against her teacher. Her panties feel tight, too tight pulled to the side, but she finds the idea of Byleth leaving red indents and hickies along her hips is only a good idea.

            “Good, oh, Byleth.” Edelgard sighs, back bending as she digs her fingers further against Byleth’s skin. Byleth scoffs a laugh, teeth just barely brushing Edelgard, and then Edelgard’s gasping at the sudden intrusion of a finger inside her dripping puss. Her thighs quiver, even more so when Byleth returns to lick at her clit.

            Professor, Byleth, one and the dizzying same worshipping her cunt. Edelgard shouts, unable to quiet her reactions. Byleth hums in amusement, the vibrations of her lips on Edelgard shooting sparks up her body.

            “Byleth! Wait, I’m.” Edelgard yelps, feeling familiar heat rush down her stomach. Byleth simply enters her with another finger, scissoring ruthlessly as her tongue laps at her clit, careful to catch her skin just slightly with her teeth. The sensations are cruel, overwhelming, and Edelgard finds herself sobbing as the waves of pleasure grow.

            “Professor, professor, I’m—” Sullying herself in a school under the church, wearing the remains of her old uniform, and the knowledge of the filth caking her skin despite Byleth’s readiness to eat her up swirl in Edelgard’s brain. She shouts, hands scrabbling to find purchase against Byleth as her knees crumple, weight now resting entirely on Byleth’s tongue and head. Her response is only to tuck a third finger between Edelgard’s sensitive folds, causing another sob to rack Edelgard’s body.

            “Close!” Edelgard shouts. She’s on the edge, tipping overboard, barely capable of staying afloat in the sea of pleasure brought by Byleth. Her gasps overtake her words, voice barely more than a series of pants. Her toes curl, ankles shaking, as she ruts against Byleth’s face once, twice.

            Then Byleth places her lips against Edelgard’s clit and sucks.

            Edelgard screams, her hips ramming straight as pleasure clouds her vision. Byleth’s tongue remains relentless as wracks of orgasmic pleasure travel along Edelgard’s body, leaving her shivering. Byleth stretches her fingers inside her, curling and twisting, her tongue pressed mercilessly against Edelgard even as aftershocks of orgasm leave her oversensitive.

            “Byleth, please, I, I,” Edelgard whines, voice trailing off into another helpless moan. Overstimulation curdles her stomach, the thought of another orgasm wrung out of her delightfully tempting despite the looming danger overhead. Still, logic and reason break through her cloudy judgement, and she pulls sharply at Byleth’s hair. “Please, we must rest for tomorrow.”

            The reminder of the looming battle is enough to break the mood, Byleth finally removing her fingers from Edelgard’s wet cunt. Edelgard’s chest rises and falls, her pants echoing in the emptiness lingering after her statement. Guilt and resentment tighten on her heart, the constant echoing of the blood coating her hands thrumming back as her body cools.

            She expects Byleth to be upset at the sudden end, but instead, her professor only has kind eyes as she stands, wet hands taking Edelgard’s.

            “Edelgard.” Byleth leans in, lips pursed. Edelgard shuts her eyes tight, waiting, but only the ghost of Byleth’s lips on hers passes before Byleth speaks again. “Are you alright?”

            She nods, unsure how to voice the chilling cold settling in her veins. It is—too much. The school, the uniform, the reminder of the woman hidden in the basement below. The face of her professor, unchanged, and even though Edelgard knows her body has barely changed other than her breasts, she knows that she has. Truly.

            A crimson flower.

            “I’m fine,” Edelgard promises, leaning in to press a gentle kiss against Byleth’s lips. Her arms come around to embrace her beloved professor, sighing gently as she rests her head on Byleth’s shoulders. Her legs are cold, wet and sticky still at the tops of her thighs, and she knows that she should be offering to help finish off her lover. Yet, sudden exhaustion pulls at her shoulders, and she settles for gently rocking in place against Byleth instead.

            “I’m fine.” Here, with Byleth, in her old classroom, in the ruined remains of her old clothes. She is no longer that sordid girl five years past, one with nothing more than empty promises and ruined blood to pave her path. They’ve made it this far, Byleth and her, carving out a road to the future.

            Three houses to choose from, and Byleth chose her.

            The reminder never fails to press a smile against her face.

            “Tomorrow,” she murmurs, and Byleth’s arms tighten around her waist. Edelgard sighs, eyes slipping shut for just a moment.

            “Tomorrow, we win this war.”

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.”

Chapter Text

            In hindsight, Lio should have seen this coming earlier.

            It’s not that Galo isn’t, well, okay, he’s incredibly stupid. Really, incredibly stupid. So much so that he takes his days off to mean free time to go back to work and irritate everyone he comes across with his… smiliness. Lio’s tried to explain the concept of breaks to Galo at least thrice before he gave up, resigning himself to seeing Galo disappear routinely every 12-6 on the weekends, when they could be hanging out, watching a movie. Making out on the couch.

            He’s not picky.

            So Lio occupies his time without Galo with other people. Meis and Guiera are his prime suspects, usually the three of time sharing pizza, riding bikes, tormenting the local neighborhood with the smell of burning rubber before coming back at midnight to clean up their messes. They’re loud, not rude, and Lio maintains that every Burnish has every right to be cared for in this city, and in exchange, care for it.

            They’ve done a pretty good job, if the newest Burnish protection laws are anything to go by. It helps that, for the most part, they can’t even burn anymore. It’s Lio, and Meis, and Guiera. Just them, with pink and green flames encircling their wrist, disappearing by the day.

            Not that it really matters, when the fire departments become more of a political chaos, drumming up support for new acts of safety. Lio’s grown resigned to this slow everyday life, watching movies, taking care of Vinny, kicking back. Life as a normal human. Life without fear of law, of jail, of experimentation and icy boots kicking against his body.

            Just life.

            Which apparently includes stumbling into Galo at work, wearing the absolute smallest pair of shorts and tank top that Lio’s ever seen.

            “You’re kidding me.” Lio’s glare could melt glass, flames or not, matched by the awful cackling of Meis and Guiera behind him. He has an awful feeling that he’s been tricked, tied to a booth by nothing but social niceities. Galo peers down at him, remarkably unbothered, considering his entire body is exposed, shorts riding up his ass, notepad in hand.

            “Lio!” God, he even sounds happy to see him. “You came to visit me at work!”

            “You work,” Lio corrects, knowing that he’s scowling and blaming Galo for every wrinkle he’s bound to develop, “in Promepolis Burning Rescue Team. Not, not,” his arms gesture throughout the establishment, garish orange and white stripes matching girls and guys alike, walking in the tiniest excuse for clothing Lio’s ever had the horror of laying his eyes upon, “at Hooters!”

            “Firefighting doesn’t pay the bills. Right, Galo?” The temptation to strangle Guiera rises in Lio’s eyes, his hair floating in the air a moment as he considers how difficult it would be for Galo to catch him without his rescue gear. Still, actually murdering Guiera means Lio would have one less friend, and he drops his hand, for now.

            “Yeah! Actually, Kray helped set me up with this!” The mere mention of his name makes flames prickle at Lio’s skin, teeth gnashing together. Seriously? Really? How stupid can Galo can humanly be? How had he survived this far? “It’s funny, he told me to quit after visiting me at work. Wonder why?”

            Some absolutely horrific deity must be mocking Lio, for the very next moment a passing customer, hands wet, delivers a loud smack against Galo’s behind. Guiera and Meis freeze behind him, eyes tracking the man who is clearly grinning at Galo, before delivering a high-five to someone at his table. Even Galo yelps, glancing both ways, brows drawn up in confusion before literally shrugging, flipping a page in his notepad.

            “So, what do you want to eat?”

            Lio shatters the glass cup in his hand and barely manages to swallow his urge to scream.

            Burgers and fries and a single salad make its way to their table. Galo hums as he walks around the restaurant, balancing the tray with remarkably more precision than Lio’s ever seen him use outside of handling his ice gun. It’s almost comically hilarious how awful Galo is at managing anything outside of his workspace, except Lio finds in this particular moment that it’s not funny at all.

            Not when some absolute asshole is shoving an onion ring in Galo’s face, hands clawing at his chin like he has the right.

            “Whoa, whoa, Lio, hey!” Guiera pats Lio’s shoulder, brows drawn together, shaky smile on his face. Lio supposes his panic is the least he can do considering it was his idea to bring them here, to watch random fucking strangers laugh and play with Galo, shoving bills into his shorts, tying up his already ridiculously tiny tank top. One man literally presses his lips to Galo’s cheek, thanking him for the service. The burger in Lio’s hands smell burnt, his fingers digging blackened marks into the bun, though he finds that he really. Doesn’t. Fucking. Care.

            “Lio, calm down,” Meis hold on his shoulder tightens, and Lio quakes, grinding his teeth together. Whatever joke his life has been until this point must really have run out of material, if shoving him into a seat to watch Galo be manhandled by fuckall assholes is any indication of where his life is heading. Irritation, humiliation, jealousy—they all claw their way upward from the boiling pit within Lio, angry, demanding.

            Some dude slips a jelly shot down Galo’s mouth, just to watch his throat bob, and Lio has had just about fucking enough.

            “Galo!” Galo startles, legs stepping back enough for the pitcher of water in his hand to overflow, splashing onto his tank down to his shorts. It’s such a goddamn flimsy material that Lio can practically see his nipples through it, soft sensitive nubs surrounded by a ring of purple and blue where he had sunk his teeth into the flesh two nights before. Anyone, everyone, in the entire shitty establishment can see it. Lio fumes, knowing that his hands are clenched, knowing that flames are dancing along his wrist, knowing that the customers have gone silent, staring at this threat, quivering.


            “Galo,” Lio repeats, marching over with thundering steps. They’re scared, so goddamn scared, and even Meis and Guiera are hiding in their booth, eyes peering over at Lio, concerned. He’d feel bad if they weren’t the ones guilty for dragging him to see this spectacle in the first place.

            “Lio!” Galo, fucking hopelessly stupid Galo, gives him a wide smile. He looks so fucking cute, in his wet tiny top and his tight little shorts, and Lio is tempted to eat him up right here on the table, swept onion rings onto these assholes’ faces, just so they can watch him have what they can’t.

            “Galo,” Lio murmurs, his hand coming to grasp at the wet excuse for a shirt, “let’s get you a new uniform.”

            “Oh, thanks!” All eyes follow them as Lio leads Galo to the back, the latter following him with an easy smile. Lio really, honestly, doesn’t know how Galo’s lasted this long in life as is. “Hey, Lio, did you like the food? I like the fries, but I think the burgers are just okay, I mean, if you like them, that’s good!”

            “Galo. Shut up.” Galo’s mouth clicks shut as Lio pushes open the staff door. No lock, on keys, and he snorts. Clearly this establishment doesn’t give a damn about basic employee safety or privacy, but, then again, maybe that’s the fucking point. Lio finds that he can’t bring himself to care. Let them whore out the other employees to whoever’s willing to stuff enough dollar bills down their pants.

            This one, this idiot.

            This one’s his.

            “How long have you been working here?” Simple, casual, as though his nails aren’t digging into Galo’s skin, dragging him to sit against the chair. Lio pulls himself onto the table, creaking under him, legs clearly not able to handle much of anything. Lio kicks at it, wondering if it’ll shatter from him riding Galo on top.

            “Hmmm, three months?” Lio could sneer, curse, shout, if not for the honey sweetness with which Galo presses his hand against his mouth, tongue darting out to trace his fingers. His eyes flicker to Lio, the barest hint of red sparkling within them, as he kisses Lio’s palm. “Lio, what’s wrong?”

            What’s wrong is that Galo’s been spending this weekends in a flimsy excuse of an outfit for who knows how many lecherous eyes, tracing the form of someone who doesn’t belong to them. What’s wrong is that Lio’s been sitting indoors learning how to play fucking Mario Kart with Lucia, when Galo’s been out here prancing around with a wedgie showing off his ass to goddamn strangers. What’s fucking wrong is Galo is so fucking stupid that he’s rubbing his cheek against Lio’s hand, genuinely concerned, unable to connect the simplest fucking dots.

            He’s so goddamn stupid, and Lio still isn’t sure whether he loves or hates the fact.

            “Galo,” like a dog, perking up to smile at Lio’s face, fingers tracking along his arm, “Galo,” he’s leaning down, hand coming to cup Galo’s cheek, fingers digging in, “Galo.” He wants to fucking mark him up, kiss and bite and bruise every centimeter of skin that some random has wrongly touched.

            “Lio?” So fucking stupid. Lio grins. His legs spread.

            “Suck me off.” Galo’s eyes widen, flickering between Lio and the door for a moment. Oh, so there is some semblance of a brain between those ears. Lio combs his hand into Galo’s hair, dragging along the soft locks, pulling sharply. Galo gasps, falling so easily to his knees, burying his face against Lio’s crotch.

            “Worship.” It’s a command, an order, something for Galo to scribble on that stupid notepad stuck around his waist, wet and crinkled from the spilled water. Lio’s half tempted to set it on fire when Galo finally noses his crotch, pressing gentle kisses to the fold of his leather pants, nibbling on the wrinkles.

            “Lio.” Galo murmurs, just the soft mumbling of his name as he licks along the line of his thigh to his groin. His eyes narrow, focused, intent on drawing shapes and patterns along Lio’s thighs, biting just slightly on the fabric before snapping it back. His teeth catch on the button, tongue working to move it out of place, and Lio hums, patting Galo’s hair, fingers tracing the shell of his ear. He’s tempted to fuck Galo’s mouth.

            “Galo, take them off.” Galo’s hands trail up, stroking the length of his pants, and Lio laughs, digging his hands into the scalp of Galo’s head. “With your teeth, dog.”

            Galo moans, licking his lips before returning to his task. He kisses Lio along the tops of his pants, just soft nips along his waistline, before digging his teeth back to the task of unbuttoning the leather trousers. He’s improved, clearly, from their first time of doing this, because it only takes him two fumbling crooks of his chin before he manages to dislodge the button. Lio purrs, cupping Galo’s chin upward so he can properly look into his eyes.

            “Good boy.” They flicker, the sparks of red within them beautiful, before Lio releases his grip to allow Galo to return to the task at hand. Galo slides his mouth along his groin, just gnawing at the fabric, before ducking down to grip at the zipper with his teeth. Taking in a breath, he draws it downward, a slow sound in the backroom. Lio moans, admiring the sight, shifting his hips to allow Galo better access.

            “Look at you,” Lio chuckles, poking Galo’s nose as he shimmies his pants off, hands tugging his briefs down to his knees, “you’ve gotten so much better at this.” The praise makes Galo blush, pretty, a soft pink that flushes the tops of his cheeks. He looks so good, kneeling at Lio’s feet, and Lio moans, unable to quench the burning fire flickering within him.

            Galo kisses Lio’s half hard cock, eyes dragging along it from his balls to his head, before leaning down to suck on a ball. Lio groans, unabashed, wondering if his voice will travel through the door, the cracks on the side, the slit underneath. Hoping, almost, a small spark within him, that every customer in the restaurant can hear his rage, his pleasure, his ownership, of Galo, licking and nibbling at his cock.

            “Good boy,” Lio hisses, fingers tightening in Galo’s hair. He wants to fuck into his mouth, leave his jaw open, wide, messy with spit and cum. But then Galo’s taking him, ridiculous slurping noises, drawing him into his mouth.

            Galo’s hands come up to squeeze the base of his dick, drawing a rumbling moan from Lio. He stares down at Galo, grinning, knowing, as Galo begins to bob his head, tongue pressing insistently at the slit of Lio’s cock.

            “Good,” he murmurs, leg coming to hook at Galo’s head, “so fucking good for me.” Galo moans, the vibration of his tongue making Lio grunt, biting down on his lip. His hands clench, digging into hair, the need to burn beginning to boil within him. Every slurp, every kiss, every lick along his dick makes Lio’s throat bob. He twists one of Galo’s ear, just to hear the pained whine, before slamming his hips against Galo’s head.

            “Take it,” Lio shouts, grinding Galo into his crotch, hips jerking when his cock hits the back of Galo’s throat. “Take it!” Galo chokes and moans, his hands clawing at Lio’s thighs, knees knocking at the floor. His cheeks hollow, obedient, so goddamn obedient, and he presses his tongue back to allow Lio to smash inside his mouth, again and again.

            Galo’s notepad has fallen loose of his waistband as his back arches, tipping his jaw back, letting Lio have better access to his mouth. Good, always good, loyal and wanting and eager for any crumble Lio dishes out. He moans, feet digging into Galo’s shin, his left heel grinding against Galo’s dick, so obviously hard and straining against the wet shorts. Galo whines, pathetic little gasps. Lio only grinds harder.

            He’s tempted to make Galo cum against his feet, make him lick it up afterwards, when Lio lazily floats his gaze behind Galo to the rest of the room. Most of the room is apparently used for storage, half-filled boxes of napkins, cups, straws, etc. But his eye catches on one open container and he stills his foot, tongue twitching. Galo moans under him, hands pinching at his leather pants, until Lio digs his hands into his hair and pulls him sharply back.

            “Galo,” heavy, lust. Lio can feel his body burn ablaze as he scoots forward to stand, dick slapping Galo’s cheek as he mouths at it, “be a good boy. Come on up.”

            Galo’s legs kick out when he makes it onto the table and it creaks, legs wobbling, prompting a biting laugh from Lio. He’s careful to walk over to the box and return in a moment, climbing besides Galo, feeling the table wobble with his weight. Good.

            If they shatter the table, he’d only be so proud.

            “Lio, Lio, what?” Galo’s mutters are cut off as Lio twists his hands into the pathetic straps of his tank, tearing him forward to smash their lips together, all teeth. He snarls against Galo, hearing the wet fabric rip, hands scratching and sliding downward on the bruised flesh below. When he presses two fingers onto a bite mark left behind, Galo moans into his mouth.

            “Galo,” careful, slow, lazy, as though he’s not jerking down Galo’s shorts down to his thighs, squeezing at his dark cock. Galo jerks, gasping, as Lio reclaims his lips, biting, groaning, shifting to leave red marks along his chin, his nape, his collarbones. He wants Galo to walk out of this room soaked in his smell, coated in his marks, mouth loose with his spit. Lio pinches Galo’s nipples, grunting when Galo’s hands slide up his sides, and pulls at the skin.

            Lio pinches the head of Galo’s dick, staring at the slit, and presses the skinny straw in.

            “Lio?” Galo’s barking, loud, his legs clenching at Lio’s hips. Lio grins, teeth grinding, as he leers close to Galo’s face, spinning the straw in place. Galo yelps, though there’s no denying the pleasure that flashes by his face, the draw of his brows together as he pants.

            “Lio, what, what’s?” Stupid, so fucking stupid. Lio bites at Galo’s jaw, dragging him downward with his teeth, relentless until he can properly gnaw at Galo’s lips. Galo groans, his hands sliding upward into Lio’s hair, downward pressure against the small of his back, as Lio shifts their hips closer to grind their dicks against each other. They moan in unison, hard, needy, as Lio twists the straw a millimeter further down.

            “Good,” Lio appraises, licking at his jaw, “so fucking good for me.” Galo sighs, high, long, obedient as he bares his neck back. Lio drags his tongue done, appreciating the marks he’s reopened, blood beading to the surface. “So fucking,” he groans, dicks grinding, Galo’s hand slipping down to hold them properly together, “good for me.”

            Lio cums first, shaking, his head buried against Galo’s shoulder. The table shakes under them, weak, unstable, a fucking metaphor for his life as he cums onto Galo’s stomach, thighs. His, fucking his, his dog, his lover, his Galo, stupid fucking shorts and all.

            “Lio, Lio, please, Lio,” a string of whines, need, wanting noises spilling from Galo’s mouth as he drools onto the table. His hips jerk out of rhythm, nothing more than persistent grinding against Lio, eyes wide as he whines. It’d be cruel to leave him hanging, Lio pressing his nail against the straw, fingers curling as he humps against Galo, earning him a gasping shriek as Galo cums, straw shooting out.

            “Gal-oof!” Galo curls around Lio, grabbing him close, thighs bouncing against his as he cums, body shaking. Lio groans, arms grasping at Galo’s sides, sliding his thigh up for Galo to properly rock against. He’s so warm, so hard, so fucking horny as he spills his cum onto Lio’s shirt, his stomach, coating his thighs. The table rears underneath them, truly on its last leg, and then they’re tilting to the side, crashing to the floor.


            Lio hisses, rolling his head to the side. Galo is, of course, pounced onto his knees, shielding Lio from any threats, looking around warily as though his ripped shirt and tiny shorts will do him any good. It is a beat, a moment of silence, before Galo relents, dipping his head down to kiss at Lio’s chin.

            “Lio, are you okay?” That stupid sparkling smile. Lio pinches his mouth, knowing that heat is rising to his cheeks without his will. Galo continues smiling down to him, endearing, sweet, so fucking oblivious to the world.

            “Fine,” Lio retorts, but his tone is soft, simple, a hand reaching up to cup Galo’s cheek. “You?”

            “Safe!” Galo shouts, finally releasing Lio to rock back onto his knees, arms up. Lio could chuckle, could shimmy Galo off his body and appraise the situation, when a hesitant knock comes through the door.

            “Who the fuck?” Lio calls. Galo shushes him, though Lio simply pushes him away with his hand.

            “Is it safe to come in?” Meis. Lio groans, rolling his eyes, falling back onto the floor. Galo jumps up, eyes eager, marching to the door and swinging it open like he’s not nude and smeared with cum. Lio gets a millisecond glance at Meis before it slams shut, Guiera shrieking in the back.

            “Dude! Put on some clothes!” Lio puts his hands over his face. His fucking life.

Chapter Text


            Soft, and gorgeous, and luscious. Just large enough to bury her face in, just small enough to hold comfortably on the palm of her hands. Hilda spends every day wondering how she could be so blessed to have these lovely breasts to lay against.

            Now if only Marianne could agree.

            “I’m just saying that you have a great body,” Hilda’s praise would probably make more sense if she wasn’t pretending that Marianne’s ears come out of her boobs. Luckily for her, she’s more than content to continue laying the most perfect pair of breasts in all of Fodland, soft and supple under her cheeks. Hilda rubs her chin along the middle, feeling wonderfully at peace.

            Marianne staring at her makes her feel a little less peaceful.

            “Hilda,” always a soft murmur, with this one. Hilda sighs, tipping her face forward so that her eyes can properly meet Marianne’s tired ones, her hands stroking upward to cup at Marianne’s chin. Her fellow deer averts her eyes, pale face the lightest tinge pink, and Hilda grins.

            “Marianne!” Sing-song, fun, like Hilda’s not two seconds from stripping off her shirt. Marianne purses her lips, pretty, effortlessly so. Sometimes, Hilda wonders what her friend did to be so blessed with the most perfect body, face, voice. Surely some ancient family secret that not to be spilled.

            Well, it’s Marianne. Always secrets with her. Not that Hilda minds—that is, if Marianne would let Hilda be one of her many little secrecies. So much fun.

            “Please don’t say such things.” Her cheeks are certainly pink now, and Hilda coos, pinching her cheek. Beautiful.

            “What things?” As if she doesn’t know. Hilda hums, nesting her face back against Marianne’s breasts, one hand coming down to pinch at the fabric of her uniform. Marianne trembles, her eyes sliding to the side, lips part. See? Effortlessly pretty.

            “I’m not—I’m not beautiful, Hilda.” Hushed, tired, as though her appearance is a secret to everyone but herself. Her eyes float upward to capture Hilda’s, pulling her in further, drowning. “Not like you are.”

            “Oh, what are you talking about!” Laugh. Smile. Hilda scoots further back, hoping that she’s not blushing, how embarrassing. “Marianne,” truthful, close, “Marianne, you are so pretty! I’m jealous.” Almost a lie, that one, though Hilda covers it with a cup of Marianne’s face, “I wish I could look as nice as you do!”

            She wants more than just that, though she doubts Marianne would ever be able to tell.

            “Oh.” She’s really blushing now, red down to her uniform collar. Hilda could ruin a mattress with how hard she clenches her hands, biting down on a hasty remark. She’s not going to ruin this, not with Marianne. But, well, if Marianne is the one to ask first, it’s not really Hilda’s fault, is it?

            Yes, that’s right. It’s Marianne’s fault for being so inexplicably beautiful.

            “Marianne,” praising, simple, Hilda’s hands dropping down to cup at Marianne’s breast, watching as her eyes drop to her pink nails, uncertain, “Marianne. Don’t tell me you don’t know how alluring you look!”

            “I-I don’t.” Marianne’s eyes flick back up to Hilda, only to avert just as quickly. Shame, as much as Hilda enjoys drinking her up, that she refuses to meet her gaze. “Hilda, please, what if someone walks in?”

            So she does know what Hilda’s doing. Mischief breaks over Hilda’s face, her fingers sliding further down to play with the helm of Marianne’s shirt, lifting it up, pulling it down.

            “What if they do?” Realistically, Hilda could probably kick anyone’s ass in this school with her arms tied behind her back. Well, maybe not Dedue, or Dimitri, but almost everyone else she feels pretty good about. Hell, she’d even kick Claude’s ass, if it’d make Marianne feel better. “We’re just two cute girls hanging out, Marianne, what could go wrong?”

            Not moving forward, nor backward. Just them, here, in the flow of time, Hilda tracing the wrinkles in Marianne’s face. So tired, stressed, so weary from this dreary pace of life, as though she’s never seen a happy day in her life. Marianne looks so much prettier when she’s laughing, smiling, when she can close her eyes and smooth the wrinkles in her face, peace settling into her heart. Hilda would know—her eyes always wander over to Marianne when the sound of her giggles float over to her, blue hair dancing in the breeze, lips open in a truly, truly breath-taking smile.

            Just a girl-crush. That’s all.

            “Okay, okay,” Hilda relents, raising her hands to her side. She’s laughing, shrill, unnecessary. Why is her face pink? “I’m just having fun, Marianne! Nothing serious, okay? We’re just,” she swallows, “we’re just girls.”

            Their hair would look like sugar floss, pink and blue spirals against the sheets.

            “I’ll see you later, okay?” Easy, soft, like Marianne is an animal Hilda’s been tasked to calm. Hilda runs a hand through her pigtails, casual, simple. “I think me and Claude need to go bother professor Byleth anyway. She won’t give us her hair routine.” Basic excuse acquired—if Claude doesn’t help her, she’ll ditch his sore ass in detention next time. “See you at dinner, Marianne!”

            Pushed too hard, obviously. Hilda bites down her cheek, resisting the urge to shout, her fingers digging into her palm. Stupid, stupid. Marianne is—she’s precious. Sweet. Fragile, even more so than Lysithea, with skinny wrists and ankles and waist, so frail. Hilda needs to learn to keep her distance so she can properly protect Marianne from the likes of, of Sylvain, or Lorenz, or Ferdinand, or, or, like

            Herself, probably.

            “Hilda!” Skinny fingers encircle her wrist, not pulling, just placed there. Hilda freezes, hand on the doorknob, already twisting. Marianne bites at her lips, sunken eyes shut, looking like she wants to cry. Of course she does; Hilda all but left her, just like that, because she didn’t want to be stripped nude. Guilt and shame twist at Hilda’s heart, cruel whispers in her head, and then she’s stepping forward to tug Marianne into a hug.

            “Oh, Marianne.” Hilda sighs, raising one hand to stroke along Marianne’s hair. So perfect, every strand brushed into place, even though all Hilda wants is to dig her hand in the braid and have it come undone between her fingers. “I’m not lying, okay? You really are pretty.” And smart, and kind, and a whole sprawling list of compliments Hilda can think of.

            Marianne shakes her head, though she doesn’t speak her mind. Her lips are pressed thin into one line, tired, so tired, and Hilda’s only one of the many factors pressing at her exhaustion. With anyone else, Hilda might yell at them, push them away, tell them to work harder, get better, become good enough for her.

            Marianne is different. Marianne has always been good enough.

            Hilda just wishes she would believe it.

            She hums, rocking them in place, hands sliding down to pull Marianne’s cheeks. Marianne’s eyes open, just a fraction, and then Hilda’s leaning in, letting soft breaths ghost over Marianne’s lips. Just to calm her down. Just to let her know.

            Hilda kisses her in the yellow light of Marianne’s room.

No flowers, no tea, no time to do her hair and put on new clothes. Just her, and Marianne, and the feeling of Marianne’s hands sliding upward to cross across her back.

“Oh.” Marianne whispers. Hilda smiles, just the quirk of her lips, taking a step back. Too much? Too little? Her breath catches, eyes flickering from Marianne to the door, wondering if it’d be appropriate to leave. She wouldn’t know, she’s never—not like this. Not with her heart pounding so.

“Good oh, or bad oh?” Hilda tries for, laughing. Forced, pitched, and she cringes at her own sound, clamping her mouth shut. Stupid, stupid. Even so, she can’t stop staring at Marianne, hoping that the fluttering within her stomach is a good sign.

“I, um, I, um.” Okay, progress, Marianne’s making noises. Nice. “Hilda,” low, quiet, so much so that Hilda has to lean in close, her breasts pressing against Marianne’s, admiring how her blue locks frame her face, “Um.” Her eyes stare into Hilda’s, mouth making shapes without noise. “I’m not sure.”

“Okay.” And then Hilda’s pressing her lips to Marianne’s a second time, her hands smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of their uniforms. She pulls apart, just a centimeter, quivering on her tip toes. Hard to balance like this, and she presses more of her weight against Marianne, tickling the nape of her neck with her fingers. “Okay?”

Quiet, so quiet Hilda nearly misses it.


            Victory screams in Hilda’s chest, tight, and she is unable to stop the spreading smile on her face, pulling Marianne close to kiss at her again. Her hands slide back down to tug at Marianne’s shirt, pulling it upwards.

            “Can I,” kiss, “take,” kiss, “this off?” A final kiss, just lingering at Marianne’s lips, smiling upwards at her, drinking in the red flush from ear to ear, the soft panting escaping her pursed lips, the gentle curve of her jaw, quivering. Gorgeous.

            Hilda loves her so.

            “Okay.” By the goddess, today must be Hilda’s last day alive, for how lucky it’s turning out to be. She beams, unbuttoning both columns of Marianne’s shirts. Such pesky uniforms, really, difficult to put on and take off. Fashionable, at the very least, shortened and tucked in to better show off Hilda’s silhouette. She’d tell Marianne to do the same, if she wasn’t so pretty as is.

            “Wow,” Hilda whistles, tugging the blouse open. Marianne flushes, a hand coming up to block her face, though she doesn’t stop her from cupping at her bare breasts. “Marianne, you’re so pretty.”

            Even without a bra, her breasts are perfectly pert, soft and malleable in Hilda’s hands. She holds them, one in each palm, lifting them and letting them fall out. Hilda is certain her eyes must be sparkling with how much she’s staring at them.

            “Hilda,” Marianne breaths, just a trail of words on a single exhale, “you’re much prettier.”

            Oh. Oh.

            Is Hilda dying? She must be, if the sudden tightness of her chest is any indication. She laughs, oh goddess, what a creaky laugh, her hands flying off Marianne’s chest. Right. Right.

            Girl crush.

            Just, just a girl crush.

            “Here, let me, uh, let me.” Criminally smooth. Hilda grins, sure she looks deranged, before slipping her hands to her dress, unzipping it in one smooth gesture. Pros of wearing a dress—easy access. Marianne stares at her, top nude, as Hilda grasps her dress up in one hand and tosses it overhead, landing somewhere along the floor. Whatever.

            “Look!” Awkward, so awkward, oh my goddess. “I mean, I look pretty decent, I guess.” Her hands come up to cup at her own breasts, only to realize her bra is still in the way. She’s cackling, is that a thing, is she really, unhooking it. “Look! My breasts don’t look anywhere as pretty as yours!”

            Marianne is frozen, eyes wide as she stares at Hilda’s naked form. Hilda’s bra drops out of her hand to fall to the floor, and then she’s just, standing there. Arms to the side, like this is some medical examination she’s prepared for. Stupid. She feels so stupid. Heat rises upwards to Hilda’s cheeks, and she crosses her arms over her breasts, suddenly self-conscious. Stupid.

            “Oh,” Marianne is speaking, and then she’s walking over, her feet a gentle patter on the floor. Hilda’s eyes drift upwards, her lips thinned in a line, as Marianne wavers in place. Awkward, stupid, just her cupping her boobs nude in Marianne’s room.

            “Hilda, um,” she swallows. Marianne pinches at her arm, eyes squeezing shut, looking remarkably tense for two girls naked in a room. “Hilda, I think your breasts look fine. I even,” her gaze averts, unable to continue looking at Hilda’s eyes, “I think you’re beautiful, Hilda.”

            Beautiful. How many times has Hilda been called that now—beautiful lady, noble, vixen? A woman who knows her beauty is the most dangerous woman in the room, and Hilda’s always known hers. Beautiful. Of course she’s beautiful.

            And yet, Marianne saying it sounds a million times more true than any time Hilda’s murmured it to herself in the mirror, pinching at her stomach.

            “Well.” Hilda coughs, dropping her hands down. “Well, I think you’re beautiful too. So. Um.”

            “Marianne, can I kiss you?” Better. Rather than answering, Marianne cranes her neck downward, drawing Hilda’s chin up with her hand. Hilda gapes, shock-still, when Marianne’s tongue makes a gentle sweep along her bottom lip, her hands smoothing back Hilda’s hair. When Marianne draws back, her brows knit together, Hilda’s eyes are trained on the tiniest bit of spit shining at her lip.

            “Was that—was that bad?” No.

            “No,” Hilda echoes. “Kiss, kiss me again. Please.”

            When Marianne kisses her a second time, Hilda slides her hands back up to cup at Marianne’s breasts, just running her fingers over them. She moans into Marianne’s mouth when Marianne pokes her tongue in, just brushing at her teeth, and then she’s sighing, gasping, when Marianne’s hands come up to pinch at her nipples.

            “Marianne, Marianne, I,” Hilda swallows, and then she’s standing on tip toes to kiss at Marianne’s ear, one hand coming up to pull at the band holding Marianne’s braid together. It falls behind her head, a soft smack against her shoulder, and Hilda wants to see it come all undone. “Take me to, to the bed.”

            They’re doing this. They’re really doing this.

            Hilda sighs against Marianne’s lips as Marianne leads her backward to the mattress. Such a shame, considering how neat Marianne smooths her room, how clean it was prior to Hilda’s entrance. They’d just have to dirty it together.

            “You’re so pretty,” Hilda sighs, sliding her hands down, lower, to unlace the corseting of Marianne’s skirt, “I’m so jealous, you know?” Marianne leans down to kiss at her neck, licking a stripe upwards, and Hilda tremors. Strange, new, but pleasant. Pleasurable, even, when Marianne’s hands slip downward to her hips, placing her on the bed.

            “Hilda,” breathe, Hilda, every breath matters, “you’re very pretty.” Marianne kisses her again, deep, tongue brushing against her own. Hilda squeaks, surprise shaking her hands when she finally manages to undo Marianne’s knot, tugging her skirt downward. “Though I’m not jealous of you.”

            “Yeah?” Hilda laughs, sure that her face is red, shoulders quivering when every brush of Marianne against her. When did she get so sensitive? “Not pretty enough to be jealous over?” Marianne hums against her throat, fingers ghosting the line of her panties. Hilda feels herself shiver, finally pulling off Marianne’s skirt, staring at the soft blue panties blocking her way. “Marianne,” careful, “can I take these off?”

            “There’s nothing to gain from jealousy,” Marianne corrects, and then she’s hooking her fingers into her own panties, sliding them down. Hilda is insane, she’s sure of it, because she’s gaping at the small string of slick dripping from Marianne to her panties, eyes frozen until Marianne lifts her leg, tucking the blue pair fully off.

            “Hilda?” Her voice shakes, just a whisper. It’s just them, just them two, and then Marianne’s fingers are curling into her hip, slipping under her panties. “Hilda?”

            “Marianne.” Marianne. Hilda swallows, staring at the small bush of blue hair at Marianne’s crotch. “Uh, I.” She’s not pink there, more of a flushed purple, even brown, and try as Hilda might, her eyes refuse to dart away. “Marianne.”

            “Hilda?” Reclusive, withdrawn. Marianne’s fingers slip out, her eyebrows drawn together, and then she’s leaning back, creating space. Protecting herself. “Hilda? I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” No, no. It’s not right, that’s not right, and the realization that Marianne is slipping out of her grasp spurs Hilda to dart forward, hands coming around Marianne’s waist.

            “Marianne,” Hilda breathes, “you’re beautiful.”

            “Oh.” Marianne stares at Hilda, looking for—something, maybe. Hilda doesn’t sure, isn’t sure, only able to focus on the fact that Marianne has apparently been gifted with truly the most beautiful body in the world by the goddess. It’s unfair, really, words failing Hilda when she needs them most.

            She groans, butting her head back into Marianne’s breasts. Why, cruel world, is she so bad at this when it matters most?

            “Hilda.” Marianne tips her head back upward, catching her eyes for once. Marianne seems lighter, somehow, though they haven’t done anything, not really. Hilda swallows. “We don’t have to keep going, if you don’t want to.”

            She wants to. She really, really wants to.

            That’s the problem.

            “Marianne,” Hilda warns, and then she’s pulling her friend back down onto her, kissing at her pale lips. Marianne squeaks, shoulders squared, before her hands come back down to slide along Hilda’s sides, stroking the flat of her stomach, fingers pulling again at her breasts. Hilda moans, warm, so warm, as her own hand makes its way downward to, to touch. At Marianne.

            She’s wet. Wow.

            “May I touch you?” Marianne’s voice floats around her, and Hilda grins. One of her hands comes up to tug at her braid, wanting to see it loose. Undone. Marianne tugs at her own pigtails and Hilda laughs.

            Sugar floss, pink and blue on the sheets beneath them.

            “Yes,” Hilda says. She really is red, from ear to ear, down from her cheeks to her throat, and when Marianne presses a kiss to her collarbone she sighs, craning her head back to allow for better access. Marianne hums, vibrations trailing up Hilda’s neck, as her fingers slip down past Hilda’s lips to circle her entrance.

            “Oh, wow.” She’s sure she looks incredibly stupid, staring as Marianne pokes a finger at her entrance. Marianne is, uh, really good at this. A soft giggle brings Hilda’s eyes back up, and then Marianne is kissing her again, soft, gentle, press of lips against lips.

            Hilda sighs, falling back to the pillows, tugging Marianne down with her. Her hands slope around Marianne’s breasts, just pushing, pulling, replicating the gentle tugs and pinches Marianne had done to her own boobs. Marianne groans into her mouth, and the sound, the realization, the implication—Hilda did that, it makes her swallow.

            “Marianne, you, you,” Hilda’s eyes screw shut, a pitchy gasp from her lips, as Marianne screws a second finger into her, crooking them at the entrance. “Ahh, you, you’re so good at this.” She’d laugh, if she wasn’t so busy tensing her hips, rocking against Marianne’s fingers. “M-more?”

            “Sure.” And then Marianne’s breasts are hanging in her face, dangling over her mouth, as Marianne shifts her thigh between Hilda’s leg. Hilda squeaks, unable to stop her eyes from dragging over Marianne’s breasts, did she mention they were luscious, and soft, because they are. Marianne’s leg slots right at Hilda’s lips and then she’s moving, slow, just gentle brushing of her thigh against Hilda’s slit.

            Then a finger comes down to press at Hilda’s clit, and she shouts.

            “Oh! Oh, wow, Marianne!” She’s okay, she’s okay, just suddenly very aware of how wet she is, how messily she’s making Marianne’s leg as her hips thrust forward, spit building along her gum. Hilda’s groaning, licking and muffling her noises into Marianne’s breasts, hands crossing around her back to comb through Marianne’s hair, finally loose, her back, her waist.

            “Is that good?” As though it is a question that even needs to be answered. Hilda would roll her eyes if she wasn’t so busy having air punched out of her, humping Marianne’s leg without shame. She feels so warm, so sensitive, so soft in a way that she’s never felt touching herself.

            “Yes!” Her fingers are grasping at Marianne’s side, her eyes dizzy, kissing and tugging at Marianne’s nipples with her lips, her teeth. “Yes, Marianne, you’re doing, you’re doing so great, I,” she’s gasping, spine arching, as Marianne draws circles onto her clit, “Goddess! I’m going, I’m going to—ah!

            Hilda feels herself orgasm like that, a hot flash of something wetting her thighs, Marianne’s hand, Marianne’s legs, surely the bed beneath them. Hilda gapes, mouth open, spittle spilling out of the sides of her lips, her arms pulling Marianne flush. Good, so good, so much better than any orgasm she’s wrung from herself before.

            “Hah, ah, what…” The room seems to spin as Hilda’s eyes open, the distant pondering of when they slipped shut. She swallows down large inhales of air, suddenly aware that her mouth is dry, and that Marianne is above her, eyes down, looking, looking,


            Like a goddess.

            “Hilda?” A whisper. Hilda shivers, rubbing her thighs together, feeling their slickness. Weird, so weird.

            “Marianne,” she whispers back, wincing at the obvious croakiness of her own voice. Okay, gross. Never doing that again.

            Marianne giggles. It’s soft, sweet, remarkably at ease for the smell of sweat and slick hanging around them, and then Hilda’s finding herself tracing her face. Her scrunched up nose, her open mouth, curled into a smile, her closed eyes, wrinkles smoothed out. Her blue hair, loose around her shoulders, pools and flows into Hilda’s own. Blue and pink. Sugar floss.

            Hilda brings her hands upward, tugging at Marianne’s cheeks. Marianne stills, her eyes blinking, and then Hilda’s leaning upward, lips pursed, eyes slipping shut. They kiss like that, gentle, just a peck. Just to be there.

            “Come on,” ugh, her voice really is gross, “I need some water.” That sparks another shake of Marianne’s shoulder, another giggle bubbling up out of her. She looks so beautiful like this, soft, gentle, hand in Hilda’s hand.

            Marianne really is gorgeous, from her face to her body, to her manner to her soul. Beauty, radiating from every strand of hair, every crinkle of her face. Beauty, as she stands from her bed, fixing her underwear, glancing back at Hilda. Beauty, when she smiles, really smiles, just a small thing for Hilda to see.

            Her heart beats, threatening.

            Girl crush.

Chapter Text

            Garreg Mach truly lives up to its name as a prestigious, holy school for nobles, even five years after being brought to ruin. Its greenhouse is a sprawling land of fresh herbs, rare flora, and a batch of specialty cacti along the walls. Within it lies a special batch of greens not found anywhere else in Fodlan, or even outside the country. The origin of them is unknown, the name unknown, the effects? Largely unknown.

            Well, unknown to everyone except Claude.

            The golden lord hums as he moves from row to row, carefully snipping off the leaves to some herbs, picking off two vivid berries from another, a hue of blue to purple from the stem to the bottom. They fall into a basket, seemingly unorganized, though knowing Claude, each has its own place. When he finishes out the row, he stands, brushing off the dirt from his pants and returning to a small table in the back, accessible only through a glass door hidden behind two overlapping trees. It slides shut behind him.

            Alone, well and truly secure, Claude empties his stash. A dozen varieties of flora fall onto a wet cloth laid out onto a white table, adjacent to another desk with a variety of tools on it, including a juicer, a pestle and mortar, a small burner. Finally, opposing, is a smaller desk besides a glass two tier cabinet. The cabinet houses an assortment of books, hardcover with gold ink, labeling different recipes. The final desk is the messiest in the room, simply occupied with row after row of clear vials made colorful by the concoctions within them.

            Poisons, or, at least how Claude prefers to refer to them, potential.

            A yellow tinted one that causes dreadful stomachaches the next day, used on Lorenz once before a midterm exam. A pink one that causes heart palpitations, sweaty palms, and heavy breathing, given to Hilda as a love potion—given the caution, of course, that an over dosage could lead to some… disastrous results. A creamy white one that can be whipped up and hold its form in room temperature that smells sickingly sweet and tastes it too. Most of its ingredients are commonplace, more akin to a treat given to a child, though several herbs placed in it are known for their bitter taste, and their properties for long life. It also contains a crushed white and red flower Claude’s never identified outside of Garreg Mach.

            He has a bundle more of those flowers on hand now, some just bloomed, some still a bud, some wilted. The buds are brought over to the mortar, and he strips of his cape, pulling on a small tassel band with a trim of pom-poms to cover his mouth as he begins to crush them in place.

            A nasty concoction that causes severely nasty running noses and drool, in the name of Sylvain, to cleanse the system of excess mucus. A colorless, odorless poison thought to cause muscle relaxation, as well as critical headaches, never slipped into anyone’s tea. A bloody red thing that can be poured onto open wounds, causing searing pain, but ridding the risk of infection. He never got close enough to Edelgard to administer it on her, stopped multiple times by Hubert and Ferdinand alike, though Edelgard had caught his eye once and thanked him softly. He made a version with this flower’s bulbs, and though he shared tea with her twice more, Hubert had always stayed in the area, watching.

            A narcotic for Marianne. He thinks she had begun to suspect him for her oversleeping sometime into year three, but she never had the courage to ask, him the courage to confess. It was just easier to shrug off her glances.

            Claude’s never liked being the center of attention. Too many eyes, too many hands. Grasping him, holding him, digging into his skin. Spit in his face, nails under his eyes, the silent shattering of something under the pressure of a thousand more.

            He grinds the bulbs until they are a soupy pulp, and sets them aside. Two pink spotted leaves make their way into a pot of water, as well as a cinnamon stick, a mint, and a leaf with soft hairs on it. He sets it over a fire and busies himself with taking the withered flowers, cutting them down.

            He had made this for Lysithea, originally. It was… an experiment, to say the least. Claude had always suspected Edelgard’s interest in her wasn’t an out of the blue surge of maternal affection, and it wasn’t exactly a far reach to determine the cause. After he had first messed with the hidden row of plants in the back of the greenhouse, they had mysteriously disappeared the very next day.

            It took him three weeks of chatting and sneaking and wandering before he had mapped it all out again. He has the map now, still tucked in the back of his notebook back in his old student dormitory, noting where each herb had gone. Most had been hidden away in Hanneman’s room, though numerous more where in Catherine’s, Shamir’s, even Manuela’s, though he knew that she had no idea what they were for. When even some had been placed in Byleth’s room, Claude had been unable to hold in his laughter. How much more obvious could they get?

            He had been the first, and for a while, the only subject. Bouts of dizziness, hysteria, stomach poisoning. He had fainted once, three steps out of his room, and when he had come to Hilda had scolded him in tears, telling him she thought he was dead. A historical fever, complete with shivering wracking his body, a dizzy haze that couldn’t differentiate light from dark.

            Professor Byleth had visited him every day that week. It was the first of many times Claude would spend alone with him, eyes fluttering shut, fingers carding through his hair. Funny, thinking back now, Claude almost wishes Byleth were here now, to hold him close.

            Well, he’d be getting that soon enough, provided he gets this right.

            Dimitri had never been as well-guarded as Edelgard. Well, sure, Dedue was awfully loyal, and his band of misfits were awfully protective of their prince. But Sylvain was an easy fool with the aid of Lorenz and Ferdinand’s natural obtuse natures, and even Felix was easy to draw away with the temptation of training with Professor. In the end, it had been between Ingrid and Claude, and she never could stick around long with his joking mannerisms.

            So he poisoned Dimitri, once or twice. Or five times. Maybe more. Definitely more. Well, who’s counting? Not Claude, for sure.

            Seven times in three years, and of those five in the third year with this. Claude pours out half the boiling water into a vial, tinted just slightly green, and places a spoonful of the pulp into the remainder in the pot. It hisses, a rancid smell overtaking the room for a moment, as Claude pokes at it, watching the pulp disintegrate. By the time he can return to placing the cut withered stems into a bowl, the pot smells of nothing at all, a shiny liquid left behind.

            Claude pours the liquid into a fresh vial, a little skinnier than the rest. As soon as its full, he turns around and hastens to drop it into a larger bowl, filled with a red powder. The mixture begins crackling immediately, ice forming along the rim, steam coming up as the red powder bubbles. Nothing unusual, which in itself is a statement about Claude’s life.

            By the time the poison cools, he pours the rest of the liquid set aside into the withered stem pieces. They bubble, hot to the touch, and he watches as the pieces suck up the liquid mercilessly. By the time they’re done, every cut shard is a bursting bubble. Claude drops them back to the pestle and mortar, and gets to work, smashing them until they are a waxy syrup. They go into another vial, two in a tray, and Claude hums.

            He shouldn’t, not really, but temptation is too much. He measures out just a spoonful each of the pink vial, and drips them into the clear liquids, swirling it in.

            Two crest suppressors, freshly made and tailored to order.


            Dimitri is, unsurprisingly, still in full armor when Claude approaches the door, tea in hand. He raises an eyebrow to his friend, who looks remarkably well-prepared for troops to burst into the door at any moment. It’s almost a shame that they’re at truce, discussing peace agreements, restricting Claude from cheering Dimitri on from the side.

            Ah, well, there’s always other ways to support Dimitri. Perhaps Claude should adorn his dancer outfit again, just to see the look on his face. Hah.

            “Oh, there you are.” Claude grins, turning to the source of the voice, only to have his face flatten immediately. Byleth is also in full battle garb, apparently also unaware about this thing called relaxation. Tempted as Claude is to roll his eyes and walk out, he instead takes another step into the room, placing the newly boiled tea onto the table besides the small tray of biscuits and scones made earlier.

            He can’t really complain, given that he’s in battle gear as well. But, well, he actually was at risk earlier of dangerous fumes and side effects. Byleth and Dimitri just don’t know it yet.

            “Tea?” Dimitri murmurs, as though he wasn’t the one who suggested the idea. Claude shrugs, tipping the pot over to pour into the gold lined blue tinted cup, Dimitri’s favorite. He passes it over to waiting hands, as well as an empty plate to be filled with sweets.

            “Look for yourself, your princeliness.” Claude retorts, pouring out another cup of tea to hand Byleth’s way. Byleth takes slow steps over, hovering over the tower for a moment for grabbing the candied peaches and a scone, breaking it in half with his hands. Claude whistles.

            “Is that how we’re doing this? I don’t mind.” Dimitri snorts at his words, reaching over and breaking a scone himself. It shatters with remarkable ease just between his thumb and forefinger, and Claude echoes a second whistle. He gestures to Byleth to sit, and, finally pouring his own cup of tea, sits as well.

            “So,” he prompts, raising an eyebrow across the table. Byleth and Dimitri chew in silence, eyes on him, and he rolls his eyes. “Guys. Peace. I just wanted to ask how your days are going.”

            “I went fishing.” Of course Byleth did. Dimitri nods, attentive, as Byleth explains the activity for what must be the tenth time today. “I had leftover bait, and was looking for a yellow or red fish. Unfortunately, I only managed to get blue ones today.” Dimitri’s face falls at the words, and Byleth flusters, waving his hands out. “Not that blue ones are bad! They’re very good. The best.”

            Claude rolls his eyes, even as Dimitri beams. Goddess, he has to sit through this small talk for how long? A part of his wishes he had gone all in and just juiced the fresh flowers, but, as far as he was aware, it tended to result in heavy headaches and mild cases of depression. Not fun.

            Waiting game, then. He’s good at that.

            He speaks about Hilda, and Ignatz, and shares a few conspiracy secrets about how much money he’s willing to bet that Ignatz has a painting of Hilda as the goddess. Byleth chuckles at that, which Dimitri knits his brows together in confusion. Then they’re off, a talk about the church, Fodlan, their former classmates turned war buddies. Byleth commends Dimitri on his agility, causing him to flush, and then to Claude about his handling of his wyvern. Claude plays it off with a chuckle, patting Byleth on the arm, wondering if his skin is enough to hide the pink that undoubtedly dusts his face.

            “And so,” Dimitri pauses, coughing into his hand, eye twitching. “Erm, and so, Felix had been,” he coughs again this time, pounding his chest twice. Byleth reaches over to touch his arm, brows pinched in concern, before he sneezes sharply. He looks remarkably confused for a moment, rubbing at his nose as Dimitri continues his short coughing fit.

            “Why is my nose so itchy?” Byleth murmurs, scratching at it before sneezing twice. His arm comes down onto the table, and for a moment, Claude thinks it’s going to flip and their wonderful tea and sweets are going to capsize out the window.

            Instead, it just rocks in place, as Byleth groans and touches his stomach. Dimitri’s coughing fit has finally subsided, though he looks a little woozy, red in the face. They stare at the table for a moment, looking so similar in their confusion that Claude can’t resist barking a laugh. Immediately, sharply, their eyes are on him, waiting.

            “Sorry,” Claude wheezes, even as excitement bubbles within him. “You two just looked so lost, just now.” It’s working.

            It’s working.

            Byleth frowns, clearly something prickling at them. They sit back in their chair, though now their hand is a little shaky, the tea in their cup sloshing from side to side. Dimitri’s a little more hesitant, refusing to even touch his cup, hands firmly pressed together. They’re suspicious. Wary.

            Too little, too late. Claude takes a sip of his tea, nudging Byleth, unable to hide the flash of his teeth when Byleth hesitantly nudges back.

            Conversation is slow to start again, but it does. Dimitri speaks about Dedue’s latest role taking care of Ashe and Annette, only to be interrupted by Byleth who kindly informs him that this is no new development. Claude regales them with tall tales about Cyril’s monstrous growth, shot down twice by Byleth’s knowledge about Ashe and Cyril’s endeavors. Well, alright, and no one has the will to talk down Byleth when he goes on another tangent about the joys of fishing, least of all when he mentions it was Jeralt who first taught him how.

            It’s awfully sweet, made sweeter by the slow reddening of Dimitri’s cheeks, the way Byleth’s fingers tighten around the cup with every passing minute. Claude leans back, waiting, watching, coaxing sweet words from his companions as their voices modulate, dipping between normal speaking tones and a lower, breathier register.

            It’s Byleth who breaks first, sweat beading at his face.

            “I can’t hear her!” He startles, jumping up. Claude and Dimitri scoot back in their chairs, Dimitri grabbing for it as a weapon, Claude preparing to duck under the table. Byleth turns from side to side, brows knitted close in concern, as he pats his ears. “I can’t—I can’t hear her anymore!” Her.

            “The goddess?” Claude intones. Dimitri turns from him to Byleth, face pinched, when Byleth nods. Claude hesitates, biting on his lip, when Byleth continues his flailing.

            “Sothis! Sothis! Please don’t be mad,” ooh boy, so this was a long time coming then, “Sothis, please, come back! Don’t leave me again!” Okay, okay. Claude sighs, climbing out from under the table, crossing his arms behind his head. Cool, casual.

            “She’s not gone, teach.” Byleth freezes, turning to Claude with wide eyes, chest panting, and oh, it really is working, isn’t it? It’s hard not to grin at them, so he doesn’t, letting the cocky smirk tug at his lips. “She’s just, uh, sleeping. She’ll be back, don’t worry about it.”

            They’re silent for a moment, Dimitri lowering his grasp on the chair, as Byleth places his palm on his chest. He’s still, just his hand moving along his breastplate, before his eyes move back up to Claude.

            “What,” Byleth’s snarling, “did you put in the tea?” Too little, too late. Claude rocks back, biting down on the chilling sensation crawling up his spine telling him to run. Even without her goddess’ protection, there’s no telling whether or not Byleth will be able to wield the sword of the creator, and Claude is not looking forward to being in that thing’s path. Instead, he uncrosses his arms, letting them hang by his side, sighing.

            “Don’t worry teach. Just a little… suppressant. It’s safe!” Claude adds, at the very pointed look Byleth looks him. He points to Dimitri. “I used it on Dimitri before, it’s fine.”

            “You what?” Dimitri startles, hand suddenly tight on the chair again. He releases it as quickly as he gripped it, but his hand comes back clean, not a splinter of wood broken off, and he and Byleth alike gapes at it. Claude whistles.

            “Look at that. Told you it’s safe. In fact,” his mouth stretches wide into a toothy grin, “you two might be the safest you’re ever going to be.” Realization finally settles into Byleth’s eyes, flickering between him and Dimitri, swallowing sharply. Dimitri’s breathing has deepened, his shoulders rising with every intake, face growing to be a pretty pink.

            Claude’s heart might burst, with how hard it’s beating.

            “A… crest suppressant? Is that, is that even possible?” Byleth murmurs, eyes wide, as his hands roam his chest. Dimitri has settled for placing both hands on the table, every labored breath a display of his muscles.

            “Why,” Dimitri growls, eye flitting to Claude, narrowed, “do I feel so warm?” Byleth nods, absent, punching himself in the stomach only to pull away hissing, nursing his pinking knuckles. Claude barks out a laugh, unable to quell the excitement any longer. It’s working. It’s really working.

            “Crest suppressant, made by yours truly,” Claude purrs, hands sliding up to unhook his cape, placing the armored cover on the table. “And aphrodisiacs, made by yours truly.” Giddiness overtakes his tone, unable to swallow it any longer. He got it right. He really, actually, got it right.

            They’re going to have so much fun.

            “Aphrodisiacs?” Byleth barks, sharp, as Dimitri groans, placing his head in both his hands. Claude shrugs, tugging loose his sash and waist band, folding them carefully before placing them on top of his armored piece. Dimitri shoots him one more wary look before following suit, letting his fur piece slide off his shoulders to crumple onto the floor.

            “It’ll fade,” Dimitri assures Byleth, coughing when he registers how throaty his voice has gotten. His face is truly pink now, a pretty hue from ear to ear, and he scratches at his neck. “I, uh, I would know.”

            Byleth sighs, groaning, though he too unhooks his cape and waist belt. It’s almost an awful shame to see them slip out of uniform if not for the fact that Claude’s been waiting for this too long, desire bubbling in his stomach. It’s been an awfully long time since he’s had Dimitri really go at him last, coaxing the beast out with pretty words and careful angling, and it’d be nice to have him and Byleth both relaxed to… participate in activities.

            “So,” Claude coughs, gesturing to the bed after kicking off his boots, “who first?” Really, Claude just wants them to fuck him. He’s a simple man, easy to please.

            And he really is pleased when Dimitri doesn’t bother hiding his groan, stomping over to grab at Claude’s blouson. His teeth bite into Claude immediately, gnawing at his lips, tongue slipping in, letting Claude moan into his mouth as his hands come up to grapple with the blonde locks. Claude pulls sharp, rearing Dimitri back so that he can better angle his head, sweeping a tongue along Dimitri’s bottom lip.

            There’s a hand sliding along his waist, riding up his shirt to pinch at his skin, and Claude groans, eyes flickering back. Byleth’s panting, pressing their jaw to the back of Claude’s neck, before crooking their teeth into the skin. Claude squeaks, arching forward, but it just sends him closer to Dimitri, quick to bite and lick into his mouth again.

            “Okay, Okay!” Claude yelps when a hand scratches at his shirt. “We’re too dressed for this! Can we please just strip first?” Dimitri growls into his mouth, hands fisting Claude’s shirt and pulling. When the fabric doesn’t immediately tear, Dimitri’s jaw drops slack, allowing Claude to grasp his jaw and pull him back, grinning. “Crest. Suppressant.”

            “I don’t see the benefit to this,” Dimitri spits. So snippy, this one, even as he tears off his armor plate, letting it fall to the floor without flourish. Claude hums, approving, making quick work of his pants and blouson before moving to the bed, considering. He could take off his underwear now, make it quick.

            It’s just that Byleth’s already nude and waiting, and Claude kind of wants him to take it off with his teeth.

            “Your schemes are awful,” Byleth intones, as though his face isn’t perfectly flushed, nipples and dick hard. He’s weeping, truly, precum leaking a trail onto the bed. Claude laughs, leaning in close to kiss at Byleth’s lips, sweeping his arms down his chest. Byleth sighs, moans, lets Claude cup his face as his hands crawl down Claude’s spine to pull at his ass.

            “My schemes,” Claude corrects, panting as Byleth pinches his ass, palming at the space between his cheeks, “are fantastic, thank you very much.” Byleth hums, looking remarkably unimpressed for a man twitching and barely resisting to thrust against Claude’s thighs. The bed dips behind them, a hand immediately clawing at Claude’s side, blonde hair tickling his face as Dimitri leans in to press a kiss at Byleth’s cheek.

            “I agree with Byleth. You are awful,” Dimitri comments. Claude rolls his eyes, chuckling, as Dimitri joins Byleth in sliding his fingers under his underwear. He’s as nude as Byleth, dick throbbing and wet, and Claude licks his lips. Fun.

            “Don’t be mean now,” Claude purrs, craning his neck when Dimitri bends down to bite at his skin. He shouts when Dimitri bites down hard enough to break the surface, drawing blood, only to turn away for Byleth to lick at the fresh wound. Claude shakes, moaning, his hand tightening to Dimitri’s hair to pull him close for a sloppy kiss.

            “You’re the mean one,” Byleth groans, lining his crotch near Dimitri’s, their dicks just brushing. They shiver in unison, picture perfect, and Claude takes the moment to lean back to appreciate the view.

            “Now, now, we don’t have time for such words. Come on, Dimitri,” Claude coos, sliding his hands down Dimitri’s stomach until he reaches his stomach, twisting his palm on the head of Dimitri’s dick. Dimitri trembles, biting down on his lip, as Byleth leans over to take a nipple into his mouth. Hot. “Let’s take care of you first, okay?”

            “This, this isn’t fair,” Dimitri pants, his hands coming up to paw at Byleth’s shoulders when Byleth turns to bite at his chest. “Nn, Byleth, Claude, w-wait.” Claude grinds his thumb down against the slit of his dick, the other hand trailing loose fingers around the base of his dick, flicking, stroking. Dimitri really is awfully wet, back arching already, drool forming at his lips.

            “Hah, hah, wait! It’s, it’s,” his eyes screw shut, hands trembling as though resisting the urge to bury themselves in Byleth’s hair. A pity, and Claude is quick to correct him.

            “No crests, remember?” Byleth and Dimitri both flicker to him, wary, aroused. They look awfully delectable, lost. “You can’t hurt him. Can’t hurt me.” His grin stretches from ear to ear as he pinches at Dimitri’s ball, earning him a shiver. “Go wild, king.”

            Dimitri yelps as Byleth bites harder at his flesh, hands finally clenching Byleth’s hair, tugging hard. Byleth grunts at the feeling, pain and pleasure flashing by his face, before darting up to pull Dimitri into another kiss, hands grappling at his waist. Claude slides his hands along the shaft of Dimitri’s dick, waiting, knowing that he’s already on his edge. He’d call him a quick shot, but, well. He’ll play nice, just this once.

            “Wai, ha-ah, Claude,” Dimitri groans, pushing at Byleth’s shoulders even as the other is relentless, forcing Dimitri to bend his spine back. “I-I’m going to—haa!”

            Cum squirts onto his hand, wet, sticky and warm. Claude blinks in surprise—he knew it was coming, but, hah, Dimitri really was cumming. Byleth freezes in equal shock, staring as Dimitri’s hips thrust in the air, cock shooting semen onto Dimitri’s stomach, Claude’s hands, even catching onto Byleth’s thighs. Yet, still, Dimitri’s cock remains hard.

            “What?” Byleth breaths, a low mutter under his breath, eyes flickering from Dimitri to Claude. Claude smiles, putting on his most innocent doe eyes. It does absolutely nothing but make Byleth’s own narrow.

            “Come on,” Claude murmurs instead, crawling over to pinch at Byleth’s dick. His professor swallows, as though suddenly aware of the heat coursing through his body. “I’ve got plans for you two, teach.” He drags Byleth’s hand down to the band of his underwear, before sliding onto Byleth’s thighs, crooking his lips onto Byleth’s shoulders. “So let’s get started already.”

            “Schemes, hm?” Byleth raises an eyebrow, though his chest is still heaving, rising and falling with every gasp as Claude slides his hands lower. He pulls Claude’s briefs sharply down to his thighs, scratching at Claude’s skin, prompting a moan. “Why don’t I trust you?”

            “You don’t have to,” Claude suggests, glancing back to the sudden pressure of two hands against his back. Dimitri glares down at him, cheeks still a lovely red, and Claude laughs, kissing the underside of his jaw. “Teach, come here. Let me suck you off.”

            Dimitri and Byleth alike moan at the words, Byleth crawling back as Dimitri lets Claude fall against him. Like this, it’s easy enough for Claude to lick at his dick, causing Dimitri to hiss and shift. Sensitive, overly so, though that alone doesn’t stop Claude from playing with his balls, nipping at the skin of his cock. Dimitri shivers and moans, murmuring, until Byleth slaps at Claude’s hands, hips hovering overhead.

            “Stop playing.” Always lectures with Byleth. Claude would roll his eyes if he weren’t salivating, pulling Byleth down to properly sit on his face. He doesn’t have this chance often enough, usually pushed around by Byleth and Dimitri’s handling arms, due to their sheer strength. Well, here, he’s a little more capable, and he grasps at Byleth’s hips and swallows down his cock in one swallow.

            “Claude! Why—nn, that’s, ugh,” Byleth groans, unable to stop the natural thrusting of his hips. His balls bounce on Claude’s jaw as he moves, pubic hair itchy at Claude’s face, and he adjusts Byleth so that he’s properly buried in his throat. Byleth shouts, unable to quell the beginnings of a shiver within in, his hips quick to pick up speed.

            “This is—ridic, hah, culous! Claude,” Byleth’s voice warbles in the air, his head tossed back as he thrusts, “w-why are you s-soo,” his hands come down to grapple at Claude’s neck, thumb pressing down, and Claude gasps, throat spasming at the sudden cut of air. “Scheming so often!”

            Claude moans, his eyes lidding, coughs bubbling in his lungs from the stifling flow of air. Byleth’s cock continues its thrusts inside his throat, though now Byleth’s properly pulling out, fucking his mouth, dick hitting the back of his jaw. Claude’s hands steady him, drool and precum beginning to spill from the sides of his lips, intent on keeping Byleth balanced.

            Then there’s a tongue poking at his ass and he yelps, choking on Byleth’s cock.

            “Fuck, hah, ugh,” Byleth’s shoulders shake as his thighs squeeze around Claude’s head, eyes rolling back. “You’re so—you’re so good at this. Such a,” he’s panting, loud, whiny, “such a good hole.” The praise goes straight to Claude’s dick, bobbing hard against his stomach, though he’s just the tiniest more preoccupied by the wet tongue licking stripes from his ass to his balls, a slick finger drawing circles on his entrance. He should have known Dimitri wouldn’t stay put.

            But, well, this is also fun. Especially so when Byleth’s hands tighten in Claude’s hair, grinding him into the bed as Byleth’s hips straighten, screaming as he orgasms. His cum hits the back of Claude’s jaw for just a second before Byleth’s slipping out, upward, streaks of semen marking stripes along Claude’s cheeks, his eyes squeezing shut before it hits his eyelids. The sound of Byleth’s screams are suddenly cut off as Dimitri’s weight settles on Claude’s stomach, no doubt swallowing Byleth’s shouts with his mouth. Claude breaths, slow, careful, coughing lightly as cum continues to soak into his face, dripping along with his spit along the sides to pool onto the bed below him.

            “Dimitri,” Byleth’s sighing, and then there’s a hand brushing at Claude’s face, wiping the cum from his eyes. Not very well, clearly, because when Claude opens his eyes there’s cum in his lashes, drooping, pulling them downward. Based off Dimitri’s sharp intake of breath, however, it’s not a bad look on him.

            He’s always known Dimitri liked his face wet and coated in cum. Call it intuition, or perhaps just the number of times Dimitri pulled his face back to properly cover him. Claude grins, flashing a victory sign at Dimitri, the other smiling back before pressing his face into the crook of Byleth’s arm.

            “Oh,” Claude intones, eyes dropping down. They’re hard, still hard, cocks bobbing against their stomach and wet still, Byleth’s significantly more so with cum and drool soaking his pubic hair. Nice.

            “This is your fault,” Byleth reminds him, though his tone is hardly scathing. He pulls Dimitri flush to him, their dicks rubbing. They moan together, breathless, and Claude swallows at the noise. “What—what was your grand scheme? This?”

            It wasn’t, and they all know it. Byleth’s just reminding him to stay on task.

            “Don’t be mean, teach,” Claude grins. He slides his hands downward, leaning back, knowing that Dimitri and Byleth’s breathing is quiet, sharp, waiting. Watching. Claude stretches his legs out, pressing his hands into his thighs to allow them a better view of his ass. Dimitri groans, hand on his dick, Byleth swallowing. Claude could laugh. He’s always been good at delivering a show.

            “I, uh, prepped before. But you might want to stretch me some more, if, well, you want to fuck me together.” It’s hard to give them a pleasing smile when pink flushes his cheeks, the words sounding filthy as they pass his mouth, even more so with how well fucked his throat is. Byleth and Dimitri alike stare at him, animals frozen in heat, until Dimitri relents, covering his red face in his hands.

            “Claude,” he croaks, shoulders shaking, “you are awful.” Yet, he’s the first to scoot a little closer, shy eye peering out from his fingers, staring at the nudity spread before him.

            “Agreed,” Byleth murmurs, and then he’s turning from the bed, eyes glancing around the room. Claude huffs out a chuckle, reaching out to pet Dimitri’s head, pulling him close to trace the shell of his ear.

            “Sash,” Claude calls out, kicking one leg at his pile of neatly folded clothes. Realization flickers in Byleth’s eyes, before narrowing dangerously, climbing off the bed.

            “The one time you fold your clothes,” he grumbles, “and it’s for this.” Claude would laugh if not for Dimitri leaning over to properly kiss at him, nails digging into Claude’s chest, tweaking his nipple. Claude moans, letting Dimitri pepper him with soft kisses, hands stroking upward at his muscles along his arm to underarm. It almost tickles and Claude smiles against Dimitri’s mouth, squirming.

            The pressure of Byleth returning to bed is Claude’s only warning before he’s pulled forward, a wet finger pressing at his entrance. He yelps, Dimitri turning to Byleth, even as Byleth simply crooks his finger and presses a knuckle deeper.

            “Hah, wow, B-Byleth,” Claude moans, arching his back when Byleth presses another finger to his entrance, pushing in with little resistance. “Not, nn, going gentle?” Byleth snorts, scissoring his fingers and pulling another string of gasps and curses from Claude’s lips. Dimitri slides back, dick pressed against Claude’s chest, eyes flickering back to Byleth.

            “Gentleness is reserved for those who deserve it. And besides,” his fingers crook, earning him a jolt and pant from Claude, “you don’t want to be treated gently.” He doesn’t, not today especially, high on giddy excitement and curdling heat in his stomach. Dimitri bites down on his lips, slowly grinding against Claude’s chest, and it’s so easy for Claude to lean forward to mouth at his dick. Dimitri moans, thighs squeezing Claude sharp.

            Byleth squeezes a third finger into Claude, hard, fast, fucking his hole relentlessly. Claude’s certain that his legs are shaking as Byleth holds them down, panting, crooking and spreading and pounding Claude’s hole with his fingers. Claude shouts when Byleth smacks his hand against Claude’s entrance, startling him forward and spilling Dimitri’s cock from his mouth, smearing at his cheek. Byleth’s cum, still drying on his face, sticks to Dimitri.

            “Oh, oh, fuck,” Claude pants, eyes wide as Byleth inserts a fourth finger inside him. He hisses, biting down on his cheek, a wave of pain washing over him. His previous stretching clearly not enough, and it takes Dimitri poking at his mouth again with his dick before Claude can unhinge his jaw, licking at the tip.

            “Are you sure?” Dimitri prods, hands playing with Claude’s hair, brows knit together in concern. Always a worrier, despite the blood he’s shed in the battlefield. Claude nods, moving his hands upward to stabilize Dimitri, craning his neck forward to battle take him into his mouth. Dimitri moans, hands scratching along Claude’s scalp, hips trembling.

            “Oh, oh, hah, Claude…!” Dimitri whines, legs clenching. Claude wants to take him all the way in, fuck his throat again, but it’d be an awful waste when he’s so close to being prepared. As though listening in, Byleth squeezes his fourth finger past the second knuckle, careful now to spread his fingers against the resisting flesh, crooking and pressing in Claude’s inner rings. Claude jerks, resisting the urge to bite down with Dimitri in his jaw, closely rotating his hips to better adjust to the stretch. He can do this. He can do this.

            He manages to kick at Byleth with one of his feet. Byleth stills, clearly contemplating, rotating his fingers twice more before pulling out, oiled fingers dripping along Claude’s hole onto the sheets. He shuffles forward, placing a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder and tugging him back, slipping his dick out of Claude’s mouth yet again.

            “Dimitri,” patient, kind, as though he’s not pink from ears to shoulders, chest heaving with every aroused breath, “why don’t you enter first?” They’re all blushing now, flushed from desire, from excitement, and though not a single drop of aphrodisiac touched Claude’s tongue he can’t help but feel a dizzying heat within him at the proposal. His eyes lid, a hand sweeping up Dimitri’s hip to pinch at his ass.

            “Yeah, Dimi.” Cool, casual. “Fuck me.”

            Dimitri groans, relenting, shifting further down the bed. Claude curls, tipping his head forward as he shifts onto his elbows, watching as Dimitri pulls his legs apart to better glance at his hole. He’s wet, he just knows he is, but the sight of Dimitri visibly swallowing down a moan at the sight warms the embers dancing in his stomach.

            “I, Claude, are you—sure?” Dimitri murmurs, as though his hand isn’t creeping close to Claude’s hole, prying it open, drool pooling at his lips. As though Dimitri hasn’t fucked him before, rough against brick walls, scratching up Claude’s uniform, his back, walking him back to his room with scratch marks along his thighs, indents the size of fingertips dipping into his hips. Dimitri must be thinking the same, licking at his lips, guilt and arousal pulling at his features.

            “Yeah,” Claude breaths, feeling Byleth’s fingers tangle into his, “yeah. Fuck me.” Dimitri bites down on his lip but finally, finally, he’s lifting Claude’s hips up, angling himself to slide into the warm and wet hole. His head presses into Claude, just the tip, and already Claude moans, knows that he’s flushing, knows that his hole is twitching around Dimitri, greedy. Wanting.

            He’s so fucking hard, dripping against his stomach.

            “Go on, then,” Byleth presses, hand digging into Claude’s palm as he leans forward to watch. Dimitri falters, shyness evident for just a moment, before he digs his fingers into the indents of Claude’s hips and pressing further in. They moan, in stretch, in tightness, at the sight of Dimitri and Claude coming together. Byleth runs a single hand along Dimitri’s arm, coaxing, and then Dimitri’s tugging Claude just a little closer, fitting a little snugger, shivering and whimpering at the wet warmth surrounding his aching cock.

            “Hah, come, come on, Dimi. Fu-uck into me already.” Claude’s grinning, panting, fluttering his lashes knowing that Byleth’s cum is still on his face, painting him pretty. Dimitri moans, hips faltering, before he presses in a centimeter more, then another, and a third, until finally, finally, his balls hang low against the curve of Claude’s ass, fully seated in.

            Claude hisses, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, eyes twitching at how full he feels, and just with Dimitri alone. Byleth squeezes his hand, gentle, and Claude squeezes back, gasping, legs already shaking with the knowledge that he’s going to be fitting Byleth within him.

            “We don’t have to,” Byleth murmurs, eyes soft. It’d be remarkably sweet if not for the leaking dick, flushed an angry red, hard against his stomach. Claude swallows, managing a gritted grin, pushing himself fully upward. Dimitri gasps, shaking, the angle pressing him even further into Claude, until Claude is hovering overhead, nearly seated on his lap.

            “This, this,” Dimitri swallows, tears beginning to brim at his eyes. Early crier, sensitive, overwhelming, and Claude kisses at his eyelids. Dimitri quivers, hands encircling Claude’s back, laying his head against his neck as he steadies his breathing. “Byleth, h-huurry, please!”

            “You heard him, teach,” and oh, how much Claude enjoys this, the wet feeling of Dimitri shivering against him, the shaky tenseness of Byleth’s feeble attempts to hold himself back, “come on over and fuck me well.” Byleth’s lips pinch, red, angry, horny, and then he’s coming forward, grabbing at vial of oil and pouring a generous helping onto his fingers.

            “Fine, but you two wanted this,” Byleth snaps. His finger smears against Claude, sharp, and he and Dimitri shoot forward alike, moaning. Claude grasps at Dimitri’s jaw, prying his mouth open, kissing and kissing and kissing, swapping spit as their teeth bump. Byleth’s finger rocks within him, sliding along Dimitri’s dick, stretching him out even further, and then another fingers poking a knuckle into him, making him shiver.

            “Oh, aah, Byleth! Hu-rry up!” Claude growls, his back bowing sharply when Byleth crooks both fingers within him, stretching, pulling, the slap of his fingers against his hole audible. His fingers scramble for purchase on Dimitri, scratching, pulling, drawing thin angry lines on the skin below him. It’s odd, so terribly odd, to be marking up Dimitri when the other is normally as hard as brick to dent, and yet, Claude can’t help but find his reddening skin so awfully pretty.

            “Byleth, ah, ahh, Byleth, Claude, hnn, please, please,” babbles spill from Dimitri’s mouth, his hands pinching hard around Claude’s waist, head bobbing with every push of Byleth’s fingers. His hips twitch and shift without his consent, natural need pushing him to rock just slightly against Claude, unable to swallow the burning desire seeping out of every pore.

            “Fuck, fine, fine.” Technically, Byleth should be stretching Claude more, getting him actually properly prepped for this. But he’s red and angry and flushed, the aphrodisiac still churning in his system, making his heart thud in his ears, and it’s no other fault than the one presenting his dripping hole his way. Byleth hisses, hand palming at his dick, balancing his weight onto his knees.

            “C-come onn, nnhah!” When the head of his dick presses against Claude, they moan in unison, hot, slick with sweat, with cum, with drool and tears. Byleth bites at his lips, feeling grunts and shouts bubbling within his chest, steadying himself onto Dimitri as he presses a centimeter more. Dimitri shakes, sliding back, and then they’re falling onto the bed, Byleth slipping far further in than he intended. Dimitri sobs, tears overflowing, mouth agape as drool and snot begin to form. Claude is still, remarkably still, sans the quaking that shakes his shoulders, his face turned away.

            “Dimitri, Claude, Claude, what,” Byleth’s panting, eyes screwing shut, as he braces himself against the bed, pressing in just a little further. Dimitri’s dick is so hard against his, every brush drawing a moan from his mouth, but it’s the wet heat of Claude squeezing them both that makes every movement starry, his eyes hazy as his legs shake, determined to make it just a little further in. “I, I, ugh,” his thigh slips besides Claude, sweaty, loose, and he could almost slip out, “Dimitri, Dimitri, pull out just a little.”

            “I, hah, I don’t think he can,” Claude’s laughing, just a loose shaking of his shoulders, and then he’s crooking himself upward, forward, letting Byleth slip the tiniest bit further in. He presses a kiss against Dimitri’s wet face, and then, finally, turning to see Byleth. The sight makes Byleth’s heart thud, his dick twitching.

            Claude’s smeared his cum onto Dimitri’s face, though much of his semen is still coating his face, his lashes, right along his mouth. Claude’s panting, jaws loose, sloppy, tongue poking out as spit spills from his mouth along Dimitri’s chin, wet from his own tears. Hazy, blurry eyes stare blankly at Byleth, Dimitri clearly already far gone, unable to do much besides whine and pant and cry with every rocking motion of Byleth pushing in.

            “Come on, teach,” and oh, how many times has Claude’s wink ruined Byleth’s demeanor, making blood flush dizzying fast to his head, “hurry up and fuck me already.” Byleth grits his teeth, sneering, and then he’s crooking his hips, angling in.

            “Sure.” His hips snap up, finally, finally, burying himself fully into Claude against Dimitri. The movement shifts them all upwards, drawing a cry from Dimitri, a shaking gasp from Claude, his entire frame quivering from the movement. Byleth moans, hanging his head, jaw clenching just as he tries to hold onto himself for just a moment, knowing that he’s on the barest edge of cumming just from the wet warmth of being buried inside Claude. He needs to adjust, cool down, just enough to let them tip toe away from the cliff.

            Then Claude is squeezing them tight, muscles tensing in, and he can’t help the way air is punched out of his lungs, his hips immediately pushing back and fucking their way in again.

            “Hah, hah, nn, ahh!” Dimitri’s sobs echo in the room, tongue too heavy to form any words as his jaw works to push out drool overflowing. Claude kisses at his lips, every pant a drag from his lungs, kissing and biting and nipping at the red flesh, shaking as Byleth pushes out and fucks back in. He’s full, he’s so fucking full, full of Dimitri and Byleth alike, and it takes just a shift of his hips before Dimitri’s pressed against his prostrate, forcing a strangled cry from his throat.

            “B-Byleth! Haah, nn, wai, wait!” Claude’s fingers grapple with his, clenching, pupils blown and eyes glassy. Byleth gasps, grinds his teeth together, unable to quell the shaking of his hips, pressing just a centimeter further, just a little tighter, making them squirm and shake beneath him. Claude kisses at his fingers, biting down on his knuckles, before releasing them, unable to stem the flow of moans spilling out of him.

            Close. He’s so fucking close, every shift, every movement, a litany of pleasurable sparks setting off inside of him. Byleth pants against his ear, the nape of his neck, hands sliding along and groping the various pulls of the muscles flushed against his back and Claude keens, feeling so flushed that he could almost imagine that he had drunken the aphrodisiac himself, high and dizzy off nothing more than the scent of Dimitri, Byleth, the grind of teeth against him and the sound of sobbing beneath.

            “Cumming!” Dimitri’s scream rings in the room, his arms suddenly swinging up to snap Byleth and Claude flush against his chest, eye pinched shut, hips tense as he fills Claude impossibly more. Byleth grunts, hands scratching at Dimitri’s shoulder, Claude’s back, finding the barest purchase in the pull and snap of their skin, as Dimitri’s hips thrust without rhythm, greedy, pushed beyond extremes.

            “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Claude howls, burying his face against Byleth’s shoulder, grinding his jaws as tears finally begin to leak from his eyes. It’s too much, he’s so full, getting even fuller as Dimitri’s back tenses with every thrust inside of him, pulling Byleth out, pressing him further in. So much, so fucking much, Claude certain that he’s a single touch from breaking in half, stretched to his limit.

            Then Byleth is biting down on his shoulder blades, hips stilling with a grunt, cum squirting inside him, and Claude can barely register himself scream.

            This, he imagines, must be how cows feel when they’re bred, filled to the very brim, pounded without a shred of mercy. His fingers claw at the sheets, a hard press against Dimitri’s muscles, his throat bobbing when every heaving breath in his shuddering chest. Claude is dying, surely, floating away to a greater realm, death by being fucked too hard.

            A hand cups his chin, turning him to the side. Claude manages a warbling groan, eyes flitting just as soft lips press against his. Breathing, sighing, a hand stroking his hair, another coming around to circle his waist. He sighs, lids heavy, exhaustion sagging heavily at his limbs.

            “Claude,” it’s Byleth, circling his jaw, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, the center of his forehead. His head lulls back, suddenly too heavy to keep up, and Byleth lets him fall against Dimitri’s shoulder, murmuring softly. “Dimitri. We need to clean up.”

            “No.” Dimitri’s word is little more than an exhale, voice soar and nasally, undoubtedly from the tears he shed when Byleth had begun to press in. It earns him a sore chuckle from Claude and Byleth alike, and then Byleth’s raising his hips, spilling back.

            “Oh, oh, fucking,” Claude hisses, forcing his eyes open to stare at Byleth’s offending dick, slow in its leaving. Dimitri groans beneath, hand covering his mouth, prying his own eye open to watch as Byleth finally pulls out, his dick soft and wet where it hangs between his legs. “Goddess, Byleth, help me.”

            “Princess,” Byleth teases, though his hands do close around to grip onto Claude’s arms, hauling him upward. His legs quiver, sudden feeling of loss flooding him as Dimitri’s dick slips out, bringing with it the pooling of cum released into Claude, dripping out of him. Claude whines, panting, eyes on the sight of Byleth’s and Dimitri’s cum mixed together, spilling out.

            He’s tempted to make Dimitri eat him out, though his thighs squeeze, protesting. He’s too fucking tired for this. Byleth’s weight shifts the bed when he returns with wet rags, wiping down himself before Dimitri’s warm form slick with sweat and snot, and Claude’s own, a finger crooking within him to properly catch more cum. Claude sighs, still on the brink of overstimulation, hand pushing at Byleth’s head.

            “Okay, okay,” he murmurs, wincing at the hoarse quality of his voice, “we’re done here. I may have,” an eye flickers to the slow rise and fall of Dimitri’s chest, arms spread, well and truly worn out, “miscalculated. Just a little.” Dimitri wheezes out a laugh, something that might have been a scoff from anyone else. His arm comes up to smack at Claude’s hand until he manages to weave their fingers together.

            “A little, indeed. I wonder, how will you sit through our council’s tomorrow?” Dimitri’s rumbling tease is met with Byleth’s joyful laughter. Claude huffs, rolling his eyes, soreness already seeping into his worn limbs.

            “Peace treaty cancelled. Everyone go home, Fodlan is under Leichester Alliance rule, now.” Dimitri barks a protest, shoving at Claude’s shoulder, and he yelps at how easily his body flies against Byleth, who crooks his arms around to catch him. They freeze for a moment, caught up in careful breaths, until Dimitri breaks it with a wince.

            “I’m sorry! That, I, I didn’t realize,” his voice cuts when Claude raises a weary hand, mouth crooked in a grin.

            “It’s fine, it’s fine. Forgot to warn you about the time active, my bad.” True to his words, Byleth stiffens, eyes tracing the room until they still. Dimitri and Claude alike wait until Byleth’s shoulders droop, relief evident on his face. Only a moment later his cheeks flush, eyes narrowing dangerously.

            “Sothis says that she enjoyed her nap,” Byleth intones, refusing to look either in the eye. “She also mentions that,” oh, he’s really blushing now, “we ought to do this again. Because she doesn’t want to see anything.”

            Dimitri sputters, face certainly pinking, though Claude bursts into laughter instead, giggles wracking his frame as he slides out of Byleth’s arm to properly bury himself in the blankets. Byleth groans, a hand dragging down his face.

            Two weeks. It’ll take him two weeks to gather up new flowers, old stems, a sprinkle of pixie dust. It’d be best to make a few variations, some from dried bulbs, other from crushed leaves. Claude hums, crossing his arms behind his head, eyes shifting between his lovers. Fun.

            “Anything for the goddess.”


Chapter Text


It’s sweltering for an autumn day in the office. Endeavor grunts at the heat pressing down on his body, insistent and distracting, rustling the few papers he’s managed to grasp onto in his haste. The new hero license laws are under discussion, and fire, by many pro heroes who are displeased about the early dispatchment of student interns into the workforce. Though much of their concern is voiced as a cry of abuse towards their younger colleagues, Endeavor is quite certain several new pros are simply angry at the possibility of newbies swiping past them in both villain count as well as popularity polls. In his own opinion, Shoto is an obvious win.

He has half a mind to sign off on his approval of the new deal today, but a certain irritation panting against his neck is making it awfully difficult to find his pen.

“Hawks,” Endeavor sighs, pinched eyes glancing over to the other, “hurry up and finish.”

“So mean!” Hawks whines, high and obnoxiously reedy. Droplets of sweat roll down his nape, soaking the soft feathers at the base of his wings. He gasps when Endeavor adjusts his seat, thrusting up just slightly, thighs shaking as they lift up his body yet again. The red marks of their last meeting dot his nude form, thin lines and bite marks corresponding against a splatter of bruises along his hips, in the shape of a familiar hand.

Endeavor pushes Hawks to the side, reaching for his pen, one hand running through the downy red feathers. The responsive shiver and gasp weighs heavier on his body.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to use me?” Hawks shuffles impossibly closer, nearly brushing nipples as he grins impishly. “Come on, Enji, use me like the slut I am.”

The legislation is ridiculously long for a proposition so simple. Endeavor sighs, flipping through the many conditional statements and qualifications detailed in the pages. It is rather difficult to see at all on a page over the tuft of Hawks’ hair and wings, and as such, Endeavor twists Hawks to the side and back for a better view.

The friction of Hawks bouncing on his lap is an easy distraction, pulling his eyes back up to the sight of beading sweat sliding along Hawks’ throat. Endeavor grunts, securing his fingers into the base of Hawks’ wings, and thrusting him onto the desk. Hawks moans, long, loud, eyes lidded and a smug smirk flickers onto his face.

“Finally, number one. Come on and fuck me already.” Hawks makes a pretty picture, arching his back, letting his wings splay out beneath him, turnt to his spine. Willing, eager, dick bouncing against his stomach as he legs squeezed around Endeavor’s waist. “I’m yours.”

“That’s great,” Endeavor mutters. Hawks gives a frustrated grunt, turning his head to the side, craning his neck back to give Endeavor a better glimpse. His hands pass Hawks head to grasp his ballpoint pen, marking along the pages.

“What do you think of the next generation?” Hawks huffs, legs tightening around Endeavor’s waist, thrusting against him. Lube and precum smear at Endeavor’s jacket and he frowns, peering over the papers to meet Hawks’ eyes. The younger of the two sticks out his tongue.

“They’re fine,” Hawks relents, sighing as he rolls his hips, a hand coming down to play with his balls, “certainly strong enough. Don’t know if they,” he pants, stroking along his dick, leaning upward to press a kiss at the back of Endeavor’s hand, “can really replace you though.”

“That’s not the point.” It is, in the far off future, the point. Still, Endeavor makes a note in the margin of the papers, about training, quirk evolution.

“Endeavor,” Hawks hisses, pressing himself flush against Endeavor’s cock, “please, if you don’t mind, fuck me already?” Hawks is an unbearable tightness, a constant reminder of how small he is against Endeavor. It would be so incredibly easy for Endeavor to place a hand around his waist and slam him against the table, driving his cock relentlessly into his hole.

He grunts, flipping a page. Hawks could shatter glass with his frustrated scream.

“Who wrote this?” Endeavor scoffs, nearly tearing a page from the force with which he pulls it. It’s an entire page of useless terms and conditions outlawing pre-existing hero laws, nothing more than filler text and a waste of his time. Hawks groans below him legs twitching as his wings come up to draw around Endeavor, cocooning him in red.

“Enji. Number one.” Sore, hoarse, irritation thrumming through his veins in the sharpness of his eyes. “Fuck me well or I will kick you out of this floor.” Endeavor’s mouth opens and is immediately snapped shut by a red feather pressed against his chin. Two more rip the paper from his hand, throwing it somewhere over his shoulder, Hawks’ eyes alight with fury. “Well, number one?”

“Well,” Endeavor huffs, though his mouth crooks in amusement, “dont have much of a choice, do I?” His hands dig into Hawks proper, prying his ass open to better slot on his dick. Hawks moans, smile pulling at his mouth, arms coming to embrace Endeavor.

“Hey now,” he pants, pressing a kiss to Endeavor’s jaw, “I did a pretty good job warming you up, didn’t i?” He grunts as his hips rise and slap down against Endeavor, dick bobbing and flushed pretty, sighing as Endeavor raises a hand to comb through his wings. Gentle, always gentle, even know Hawks can snap a man in half and ruin two more in the second it takes the man to form a scream. Hawks sighs, letting Endeavor nip at his lips, pulling a hand up to trace the shell of his ear.

“Cock warmers don’t whine,” Endeavor corrects. His hands bounce Hawks against his hips, red feathers brushing along his arms, his neck, tickling, wanting. He kisses one, feeling Hawks tremor around him, before pulling Hawks closer to his chest.

“Well,” Hawks’ eyes are lidded, warm, and he moans as he brushes his dick along Endeavor’s stomach, hand pressing against the head of his dick, “good thing I’m not just your cock warmer.”

Amusement flickers on Endeavor’s face, quickly followed by arousal, groaning as Hawks pitches himself further up, just hovering with the entrance of his hole over Endeavor, before slamming his hips down. They shout, Hawks clenching tight around him as his thighs quiver, Endeavor’s hands warm as they palm at his waist, his chest, cupping his chin before drawing him into a kiss.

“Hah, nn, Enji!” Hawks cums first, unsurprisingly, warm and wet and needy from playing with himself on Endeavor for the last hour. He squeezes tight, pupils blown and eyes hazy, as Endeavor grips his body against the desk and pounds into him, relentless. A hand settles into his feather, drawing out a shrill shout, pinching and pulling and folding the sensitive wings until Hawks is trembling, gasping out from the beginning edges of overstimulation.

Endeavor peals himself off Hawks, grunting, feeling the ruined cum-stained blazer and throwing it off. He palms his cock, pulling, twisting his hand along his head, aiming at Hawks’ gaping hole. He loves this the most, fucking Hawks well and truly, and shooting his cum into his stretched out anus, just to see it drip and dribble out.

“Come on, Enji,” Hawks pants, his hands trailing down to pull at his hole. Endeavor shakes, a hand grappling with his balls, as Hawks hooks his fingers in to give him a full view. “Fill me up. Cock warmer, remember?” A red feather floats over to ghost his dick and then Endeavor’s shouting, cumming hard against Hawks’ hole. Hawks moans, grinning, feeling familiar wet warmth splatter inside of him. He enjoys many things about sex with Enji, the sudden gentleness a pleasant surprise, but few things beat the reminder that he is well and truly owned by the number one hero.

Endeavor comes down with a series of pants, steadying himself against the table. Hawks peers up at him, unbearably smug, prompting Endeavor to sigh before leaning in and kissing at those quirked lips. All these years as the hardest hero around, and here he is, indulging a true brat of a number two.

“Go again?” Hawks moans, hands crooking against Endeavor’s ruined shirt, see through with sweat. He peers at Endeavor through lidded eyes, wriggling his ass up. Endeavor looks at him, at the cum leaking out of his hole, and back to Hawks.

He takes a step back, watching. Hawks squeaks, his hands moving at the air, mouth twisted in confusion. Awfully endearing for a man insistent on bothering Endeavor during his work. Speaking of,

“I have work to do,” he reminds Hawks, pointing to the stack of papers left on his desk. Hawks groans, relenting, falling onto his back.

“Fine, fine, old man,” his eyes peer up, a grin slotting back onto his face. “Say, I heard I make a pretty good cock warmer.”


Chapter Text

            They say that the line between love and hate is as thin as strands of hair in the wind, a mirror image made by flipping the world over water. Love, and hate, and love again. Arguments that made relationships stronger, silence that withers it down to dust.

            Love. Hate. And love again.

            It’s an awful shame that there’s nothing but hatred in Pearl as she stares at the water’s edge, watching it slip over to drift away into nothingness. Theoretically, she knows, it will leak into Amethyst’s domain, and perhaps after that into Garnet’s, finally arriving to the center core, bubbled gems aplenty. She draws a shape into the water, the beginnings of a heart. Instead, she finds herself distracted, just one finger divvying the flow, creating a small crease that immediately fills when she lifts her finger.

            A hole, of her creation, and then immediately gone. She wishes her heart would heal just as quickly, and even so, she knows it may be another millennium more before she can stand on unsteady feet, hands cupping the shards of her gem.

            Letting them scatter. Watching them fly.

            The remains of Rose, of Steven, of what was once herself. Pearl sees it flash by the ripples, the shattering, the tears, the denial. Betrayal. Watching Rose become something unlike herself, something beyond the comprehension of gem, something… human. Odd. Her natural curiosity, compassion, joyful mannerisms, gone. In her place, Steven.

            The sky twinkles above her, artificial, as organic as her skin, her form, the materialization of her hopes in physical form. Pearl reaches out, sees the sky bend, sees the stars twist and curve, forming a familiar face. Pink Diamond.

            Her beloved, once, before Greg had sung some silly song and she had been stolen away, an arm around her waist, a lip pressed to her cheek. It had been fun, fine, a silly game, once, a play that Pearl had known step by step until it had been the last. Until Pink Diamond had become Rose, Rose become Steven, and Pearl had stayed the same. New hair, new clothes, a shiny new smile. Yet, the shards stay with her still.

            She remembers, once, when Rose had been that, just any other gem, holding Pearl close, whispering her lovely nothings.

            “Oh, what beautiful eyes.” She had said, once, when Pearl had reformed with glassy eyes and a fluttering skirt, a tad smaller, a tad thinner, more akin to the blue pearl who Rose had praised. She had been Pink Diamond still, a ruler worthy of the name, and when she had cupped Pearl’s face she found herself unable to quell the sudden heat flaring inside her.

            “You look like a real pearl.” She did, and she does, doe eyes glassy still. She swaps out her skirt for a dress, a gentle fluttering thing, reminiscent of the one’s sapphire’s adorn. It swept the floor, as elegant as any sapphire, and Rose had played with the tail of her skirt and called her pretty.

            Lace up flats and knee high stockings, yellow roses on pink lace. A tulle sleeve, an ornament of glass and flowers, a comb in her hair. Anything, and everything, details briefly dusted over by her diamond a decade before, cleaned, caressed, reimagined within Pearl.

            “Lovely,” Rose had said, their feet gentle patter on beach sand, “you are so lovely.”

            They had embraced, like that, not as Pink Diamond and her Pearl but as Pearl, as Rose, as two gems who had seen a millennia and lived one more. A gem, another gem, breaking rules. Embracing. Laughing. Kissing.

            A Rose and her Pearl, just two gems who had met on this beautiful planet named Earth. Walking the blue seas, wandering cracked marble. Frozen in time, sculpted into stone, smiling faces hidden along fifty others in the columns that once made up a castle. Two gems.

            Her, and her, discovering human love.

            Pearl sighs, shifting to her side, her hair wet as it drifts with every pull of the water. Reminiscing about Rose does her no good, nothing more than a reminder of the regrets that rear their head to her with every blink of her eyes in the outside world. And yet, and still.

            The water shifts around her, warming, warning. She shouldn’t, not really, not when Amethyst is wandering some levels before, not when Garnet may be walking the paths of their rooms, not when Steven and Connie are outside, smiles wide, oblivious. They think Garnet cool, amazing, for what she is. For who she is. A fusion, in her everyday life, embracing.

            Pearl doesn’t think she would have minded, if she had spent the rest of her time as Rainbow Quartz.

            “I love you.” Foreign words, foreign tongues, trading secrets and murmurs that they couldn’t understand, stumbling onto the planet. There had been girls, people, humans, like them, who embraced and kissed and wandered somewhere in love, pink cheeks, pink lips bruised red.

            “I love you.” For something, for someone, for the hugs they had laughed over, for the kisses they had shared. Love, for the stars glittering overhead, for the sand shifting between their toes. Love, for the flora, for the fauna, for the notes Rose had sung to her under palm trees, for the smell of cooking meat, fresh from the bazaar, long robes covering their forms. Love, for the moment they had spent together building a home.

            “I love you,” Rose had said, and then she had gone, leaving Steven in her place.

            Pearl digs within her gem, fingers scratching at the open space, sharp edges scratching along her palm before she finds herself cupping the fragile pink remains. Falsified shards, awfully realistic, and even though she knows them fake she treasures them just as well. They are real, to her, to her heart, beating fast. On Homeworld, she would have been sent away for such thoughts.

            On Earth, they find her cool. Empowering. Dizzying strong, as weak as she is, and Pearl presses the shards to her chest as she stands on wobbling legs.

            Bow. Pirouette. Walk, and turn, her legs crossing and uncrossing, back bent back. The shards glitter in her hands, warm, and Pearl shifts them from hand to hand, dipping as though they can hold her in their arms. Shifting, her arms pulling them close, embracing herself. Kissing the air, her fingers, the shards.

            Her form grows loose, hazy, conscious fading out. White, blinding light, overtakes her as she recedes, legs bowing as light bends over the shards. Wanting, needing, fusing.

            A confession of long love.

            Pearl gasps, her eyes snapping open, as her legs fall out from below her. The shards fall into the water, caught onto the ripples expanding out, and then they slip over the edge, tumbling far off into the depths below. Pearl stares, frozen, her limbs shaking.

            Gone. In Amethyst’s hands, surely. Yet, gone, from her eyes, from her hands, off into another plane, another world. Gone, far from her.

            Her fingers make slits in the waves, just little holes. They heal up when she lifts them, and redoubles in size when her hand slams down, wrists shaking.

            Love, and hate, and love again.

Chapter Text

            In long tales and whispers about the neighboring countries murmured within Almyra, the idea of a frosty winter wonderland in the land of Fodlan was one that Claude personally could never quite wrap his head around. Snowflakes and icy windows, sure, frosty streets and slippery floors, of course, but the picturesque image of a castle, streets caked with perfectly even levels of snow, a gentle breeze drifting snowflakes onto rooftops and balconies, seemed unlikely. Foreign. Impossible.

            He was wrong, evidently, and his body pays for it with every shiver that wracks his body. Byleth casts him another amused glance, somehow perfectly content with the chilling winds that invades every bare centimeter of his skin, whether it be the bare exposure of the nape of his neck to his reddened ears, frozen solid. Claude grinds his teeth, unable to slow the chattering of his jaw shivering.

            Embarrassment flushes him red when her amusement flickers into concern for a moment, genuine surprise at his ineptitude apparent. How shameful, to be regarded as such by his beloved. His eyes wander to the ground, counting brick and cobblestone on their slow journey back to the castle. They should have taken the carriage, probably. He had known from the skies that there was a chance of Fodlan deciding to frost over, but it had been easier to dismiss the probability than actually have to call for their drivers. Now, he has some more regrets.

            Regrets that quickly flitter away from the sudden warmth that drapes over him, heavy, sagging at his shoulders. Claude’s eyes flicker up to Byleth in surprise, though all she offers is the barest tug of her lips before turning away to speak to the traveling ambassadors who had decided to change the meeting place back to Fodlan’s grand castle. He walks by her side, hands gripping the coat she so lovingly placed around him, hands pinching to pull it closer.


            By the time they arrive back to castle grounds, their travelers are sufficiently tired. Seteth and Flayn had come to the door to retrieve them, the former scolding them for being careless, the latter laughing at the sight of their king shaking miserably. It isn’t until they are safely ushered inside that Byleth slips her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close to hide his face into her shoulder.

            “Excuse us. It may be best for my king to take a bath.” Her king. A shiver is pulled from Claude, only partially from the cold still lingering in his body, and he offers a weak nod, shuffling the coat closer to his body. In the past, he may have refused to showcase any weaknesses to representatives of other noble families. But here, now, with Byleth by his side and the knowledge of his friends’ willing to fight for him, it’s a little more tempting to drop his guard and simply freeze in place.

            “A bath sounds lovely,” he confesses, coughing out a soft chuckle. Byleth grins down at him, squeezing his shoulders close, leading them back to their chambers.

            “For what it’s worth, you did well out there. Though, I told you to dress more warmly,” her scolding is more a taunt than anything, though Claude still ducks his head, tongue instinctively poking out in response. Byleth had mentioned the freezing dip in temperatures, yet Claude had refused to adorn the extra fur, opting instead for his usual robes. Regret has long since filled his bones, only minutes after the wind had grown temperamental.

            “Why, thank you, your majesty. For an Almyran such as I, I did do a pretty good job.” His self-compliment is brushed off with a pat against his bath, Byleth withdrawing her hand to draw the bath. Claude hums, shedding her coat and folding it with care, placing it onto their bed. The small exposures of his skin, a peeking of his wrists, his cheeks, and even a small expanse of skin where his shirt simply wasn’t tight enough to block pesky gusts, are reddened and sore from the temperature. With every removal of his clothing, Claude finds himself shivering again.

            Byleth’s hand against him is a warm comfort that draws a relieved groan.

            “You are freezing,” she grins, quirking a brow. Claude grins back at her, knowing his lips are dry from the constant wind. Yet, she presses her significantly warmer hands against his cheeks, drawing a soft hiss, only to kiss at his chapped lips. Claude sighs, shoulders sagging from the pressure of her hands sliding down to rub at them. Sore, tired, already a little pained. Just how she likes him best.

            “Go ahead and warm yourself up. I’ll be in after a few moments.” Claude nods, a spark of excitement running down his body. It’s been a long day, sure, but he’s sure whatever Byleth’s thinking would make their night go all the faster. With the negotiations yet to come, he’s sure that any distraction would make for a better day.

            The heat of the water is lovely against his prickled skin, though certainly burning, prompting a series of hisses and grunts as he dips his legs in. Claude wavers, careful to immerse himself in the bath, eyes wary on the steam rising from it. Byleth and him alike enjoy hot baths, especially natural springs, but the relentless hours of cold against his skin has made him sensitive, wary.

            Knowing Byleth, she’s probably excited about that fact. Well, honestly, Claude can’t deny his own bubbling mirth, and it’s with that thought that he splashes in entirely, yelping at the heat rushing up his body.

            “I said to warm yourself, not drown,” Byleth chides, though her voice is rumbling, laughter evident. Claude grins up at her from under wet bangs, running his hands along his skin, shoulders, shuddering when he hits his face.

            “I am warming myself, I’m just doing it by drowning,” he splashes his face with emphasis, only to cough and sputter at the burning temperature. Byleth does laugh this time, slipping her body into the bath and sliding the door shut behind her. It isn’t until Claude manages to swallow down gulps of air and smooth his hair back that he notices some of the items she’s begun to lay out on the floor.

            “Ears? Wouldn’t those get wet?” And, oh, his tail too. Claude swallows, warmth in his face nothing to do with the water, at the sight of the vial of oil at the side of the tail. Byleth hums, smoothing down the fur of the cat ears, holding them close.

            “You already looked like a wet cat, I figured we should complete the look.” She grins, tossing them at Claude’s head. It’s reflex that snaps them out of the air, though his wet hands immediately soak the hand. He offers her his prettiest pout as he slips them onto his head, eyes back to the tail on the floor.

            “How mean. I’m no wet cat,” he sighs, swinging his head back dramatically. Byleth snorts, shaking her head, stripping out of her attire. Claude whistles, averting his eyes when she turns to him. “Oh, goddess, I am still freezing. If only a certain somebody would offer me their warmth?”

            “I wonder, should I call Seteth?” Byleth teases, though she finally dips her toes into the bath, shivering just slightly at the difference in temperature. Claude groans, rolling his eyes as his legs draw back to make room.

            “Ugh, no thanks. Do we really need to mention Seteth now?” His hands gesture to his ears and tail on the floor. Byleth barks another laugh, significantly sharper, and when she immerses herself fully into the water, eyes on him, he feels distinctly smaller. Barer, even though they are equally nude, as though she’s caged him in. She has, really, sliding an arm along the tub to inch ever closer. Claude swallows.

            It’s no surprise when she grabs at his chin, hot water stinging and causing him to hiss. Her kiss is teeth first, biting and tugging at his lips, before her tongue slides in to push him back. Claude moans, letting his head slip back, baring his throat for her fingers to slide around. He finds himself wishing she brought his collar, only to have said thoughts cut off by the squeeze of her fingers around his throat. Equally as good, if not better. He shivers.

            “Cold?” Her hands loosen, eyes lidded though careful as they trace his face. Claude nods, hands sliding upward to cup her breasts.

            “I’m alright. Keep going?” The flash of her incisors makes him tremble, from fear and giddy excitement alike, and he moans when she forces his head back further to bite along his chin. Claude groans, hands roaming her torso, admiring the muscles rippling under her skin. When her hands squeeze at his throat again, her mouth biting at his ears, he trembles.

            “Is my kitty afraid?” Taunting, haunting, driving another shiver down his spine. Her hands squeeze, his whine breathless, air stolen from him with every kiss. His hands grow slack against her, simply crossing at her back for support as the world begins to grow hazy with the steam, lack of air making his mouth gape.

            The sudden release of pressure against his neck makes him cough, sputter, spit and drool built up in his mouth spilling onto his chin, into the water. His eyes pinch, hand clenched at his chest, when two hands grapple with his shoulder, forcing him against the water. Claude’s startled shout is drowned until they release, pulling him against the tub, Byleth a presence behind him.

            “Stay.” Byleth’s voice is a harsh whisper against his ears and he whimpers, feeling heat truly flare within him. A glance down reveals, yep, he’s hard, wet with bathwater. Her movement causes cool breeze to tap on his back, causing him to shiver. Cold. He slides down just a centimeter, then another, letting the warm water climb up his skin.

            A hand slaps at his ass and he barks, arms scrambling along the tub, sent forward with the force.

            “I said stay.” Byleth must be scowling, for she sends another smack along his other cheek. Claude gasps, biting on his cheek, as she rains another two spanks down upon him. He shivers again, feeling cold creep along his spine after every hit, certain that she wants his cheeks to flush pink against the rest of his freezing skin.

            “Cruel woman,” he taunts, yelping when the next hit is against the flesh between his ass and thighs, skinnier, sensitive. It reddens faster than the tops of his ass, where she hits in succession, before digging her nails into his flesh and spreading his cheeks. Claude moans, eyes flickering back, catching on the slow satisfaction dawning on Byleth’s face, no doubt at the pinking of his skin.

            “You love it.” Her hands pinch and prod at his ass and Claude shakes when he feels her cold spit against his ass. His legs and elbows are warm still, in the water, but the cold air outside the bath is quickly beginning to get to him. Byleth must realize, as she doesn’t bother with any more spanks, quick to press a finger at his hole.

            Claude gasps, legs rocking forward, at the sudden intrusion. Cold, cold, cold! His frame shivers when Byleth presses a knuckle in, cold lube a shock against his warm insides. She presses a kiss to the small of his back, finger making slow, waxing retreats and returns until he can relax enough to accommodate.

            “Another,” Claude whines, flinching when Byleth does spank him for that, a bite on the flesh of his ass causing him to whimper. “Another, please,” he corrects, the roll of his eye cut by the squeezing of his eye at her finger pressing into him. He moans, shoulders shaking, a slow roll of his hips to better accustom to her. Claude sighs, his head drooping, certain that his wet ears have disappeared partially into his hair.

            “You’re so tense,” Byleth’s voice is no more than a rumbling laugh against him, sliding up his side until she’s biting at his shoulder blades, drawing a groan. “Is the cold really so bad?”

            Yes, yes it is. Claude bites down his whine, lips hurting as his teeth draw blood, Byleth’s fingers scissoring within him. The bathwater splashes over, wetting the tiles, and Claude finds himself distinctly similar, sticky and wet with every kiss pressed against his skin, every crook of her fingers within him. When she slips her fingers fully out, wiping the oil onto his slick skin, he can’t still the needy shout from his lips.

            “Byleth,” he wheezes, head dizzy, “nn, m-meoow?” It earns him an amused hum, if anything, and then there’s a pressure at the base of his spine, large, too much, intruding. Claude shakes, scrambling forward, eyes wide as the base of the plug presses insistently at his ring of muscles. He’s dizzy, hazy, world fading fast as his eyes begin to warm, tears welling.

            A hand grasps his hair, pulling, arching his back into a perfect curve just as the tail slips another centimeter in. Claude really is crying, a whimper shaking his frame, when Byleth pulls him to her face. Her eyes are pinched, dangerous, wary, and for a fraction of a minute he thinks she’s going to bite him. She stares at him a moment, just her hand drawing circles along his hole, the plug still against his shaking frame. Byleth is looking for—something, something.

            “Meow?” He murmurs, and then she’s kissing, licking, biting at his lips, the plug slipping fully in. Claude jerks, tears splashing onto her face, hands cupping at her waist as he shivers. He’s cold, and warm, sensitive and not, a cloud of haze making every coherent thought dissolve into liquid, slipping through his fingers. Byleth presses her tongue to his cheek, unbearably hot even to his flushed cheeks, and when she breaths he quakes.

            “Clean me up, kitten.” Her arms cross onto his chest, and with a simple tug backwards, Claude finds himself spilling onto her frame, gaping, water splashing over onto the tile, effectively wetting any surface. Byleth grins, raising herself halfway out of the tub, spreading herself over the water’s surface. Here, so close to her, he can see how the water clings to her dripping puss, hair matted down, lips spread wide.

            Byleth groans as he presses his tongue to her clit, making slow patterns, his hands coming up to finger at her. When his hands are then slapped away, his eyes trail their way up to her face, smirking, fingers burying themselves into his hair and pulling sharply, the cat ears shifting.

            “Kittens use their tongue to clean, don’t you know?” Right. Claude manages a roll of his eyes, wetting his lip. He feels still—at odd, at edge, mind floating just overhead as he returns to licking at Byleth’s lips, plunging his tongue into her wet cunt. Byleth grunts, fingers tightening, pressing his mouth flat against her, her hair tickling at his cheeks as her hips rotate.

            The water feels pleasant against his skin, brought down by Byleth’s thighs tightening around his head, her hands tugging and twisting in his locks. Every rumble of a grunt or hiss from her, every clawing of her nails up against his scalp, is a warm arrow darting through his haze to prod at his dick, standing hard in the water. His hips rotate, the plug of the tail tight and flush inside him, making him rumble a soft moan against her. He places his lips against Byleth’s clit and sucks, hard, and her sharp inhale warms him better than any drawn bath.

            “Good kitten,” Byleth breathes. Her hand wanders her breasts, pinching at her own nipples, cupping the expanse of her skin. Claude licks along her thighs, the crease of her skin under her lips, sucking and pulling gently with his teeth before returning to broad licks, in any pattern, any form. His eyes grow lidded, tired, tongue growing weary until Byleth’s hands snap his head downward, harsh, her hips rocking against his as her thighs shake.

            Claude licks along her sensitive cunt, trailing along the slick puddle pooling at the base of her ass. His jaw begins to sore, wondering if she’ll keep him like this, in a cooling bath, just licking and worshipping and wanting at the base of her clit. It isn’t until she grasps his chin and jerks him back that he can refocus onto her face, hazy, glossy, aware again that he’s soaked wet with bathwater and tears alike.

            “Good kitten,” she repeats, and his dick twitches as the praise sinks into him. Her hands bring him up, lazy, nails digging into his skin, drawing blood. Her lips are soft, just a press against his, before she snarls, teeth baring against his lips, cutting, drawing moans and shivers.

            “C-cold,” he confesses, hands pinching at her skin, shoulders drawn flush against her breasts. He rests against the crook of her neck, baring the back of his, and her teeth sink into it, no doubt leaving a lasting angry red mark. Then they’re immersed back into the water, cooling now against his skin, and he shivers, mind flickering absent between Byleth’s hands and lips, the drag of her nails against him, the press of the tail inside, closer, deeper, pressed against the tub.

            “Shall I warm my little kitten up?” Byleth’s voice is an echo permeating his ears, hands sliding downward. He thinks, for a moment, that she’s going to ride him, just slip him into her and clench around him, pulling orgasm from him with ease. Claude nods, pressing against her, only for her to laugh and shift away.

            “You’ve never had sex in water before, it’s not as fun as it looks,” even as she speaks, her hands trail down to circle the head of his cock, jerking slightly. Claude groans, the same haze growing stronger, sharper, a heat crawling within his body.

            “P-please, haah, By-Byleetthhh,” every drag of her name is a weight on his tongue, made heavier by the press of her breasts along his face. He moans, muffling into her boobs, eyes slipping shut. Tired, he’s so tired, cold and prickling and sensitive with every twist of her hands, every pinch of her fingers, one hand sliding downward to his tail and tugging sharply. Claude groans, neck arching back, eyes wandering upward.

            “Does my kitten want to come?” It’s unfair, really, how well her voice purrs still. His arms shake as they cross her shoulders, pulling them impossibly closer, flush, his eyes just peering over her breasts. His face is—it’s red, dizzy, must be, heat wandering to the surface against the cold driving goosebumps along his skin. His hips jerk, rotate, with every movement of her hands.

            “Please, please, nn, Byleth, Byl-eeth.” Her fingers release the plug, shoving it harsh against him, before slapping loud and hard against his ass. Claude startles, eyes fluttering wide, open, surprise and sensation gripping him just as Byleth grinds her thumb against the slit of his dick, the warmth within him unbearable.

            It’s a relief when he finally cums, sniffling and sobbing into Byleth’s breasts, barely aware of the slackening of his arms around her figure. Her fingers continue their ministrations on his dick, pulling a pool of whines and whimpers from his sagging jaw. His shoulders fall, head well and buried in her tits, trying to work his tongue around words.

            She speaks first.

            “Still cold?” And he’s—not, actually, now that the dizzy haze is finally beginning to release its hold on his mind. Claude shakes his head, finding it easier to hide in between her breasts than answer, drawing a chuckle from her. Her hands slip up to pat at his head, interlocked with his wet bangs, a press of her lips against his forehead.

            “Can we,” his throat bobs, sore, and he turns his face to better let her appraise his features, “can we stay? Please?” The curve of Byleth’s lips against his skin is surrender enough, and yet, he waits for her arms to slide him further into the water, immersing them to their shoulders, her hands stroking along his back.

            “Sure,” she says. “As long as you want.”

            They stay until the water cools and the shivering kicks in again, Byleth leaving first to grab their softest towels to pat down his skin. She laughs and coos over him, sniffling, cocooning him with blankets and robes and herself, the warmth of her body luring him close, face finding purchase against the crook of her neck. The sky outside is dark, gusts blowing snow insistent at their windows, billowing harsh echoes along the buildings. It must be freezing outside.

            Here, swaddled close to Byleth, Claude swallows, his eyes slipping shut.


Chapter Text


Dark skies and thundering clouds, winds that whisper and weave into every exposed crack of clothing. Desperation, rumination, Illuminate the city as the hours rock past, lights exploding with every echoing shout and scream, glass shattering on impact. A women screams under the crashing smash of a car against the ground, a towering man above her, hands raised and prepared to slam down.

He has barely a moment to roar before a sword is twisted into his ribs, sharp, slicing, a second knife making quick work along his stomach. He screams, low, villainous, a creaking noise that shakes the ground and sends her spiraling back, eyes squeeze shut against the rain of blood squirting from his wounds. She has just a moment to shriek, adrenaline coursing fast in her veins, before a dart punctures her neck, causing her to slide to the floor, unconscious.

“Really?” Roy raises an eyebrow at his temporary mentor, thoroughly unimpressed. He toes the bleeding body of the man, dying at his feet. “You didn’t need to kill him.”

“It’s the job, kid.” Roy sneers at the words, grinding his teeth as he turns away. Slade places a foot against the rib cage of the fallen, sliding his sword out, the sound of it sliding against his bones causing Roy to wince, shoulders drawing up. Slade wipes the blood against the man’s form, cleaning it halfheartedly before sheathing it.

“You’re alright, still?” The words are unnecessary. Roy clenches his fists, drawing his arms close to his chest as it burns. It’s- distracting. Unwanted.

“Fucking pervert,” he bites out. The clamps on his nipples hurt, an unbearable stinging at his skin, chafing with every rub of his uniform, every twist of his muscles beneath his skin causing him to swallow. His throat bobs as his hands clench, arms struggling to relieve the pressure off the clamps. “A—and don’t call me kid.”

“Right.” Airy, uninterested, as though he wasn’t the one who snatched Roy out of his apartment for sudden late-night training. Shame flares in Roy’s stomach, the vivid replay of how quickly Slade had handled him, forcing him against the bed, arms bound, before sliding these cursed clamps onto him. His hands ball at his sleeves, crinkling the fabric, eyes darting from side to side.

“Let’s go.” Then they’re off again, darting from street to window to roof, eyes roaming the sleeping city. Clever folk try to sneak into cracked windows, those less clever never make it in, caught first by crushing fists and shifting eyes. Roy notches two more arrows, intent on catching them before Slade, yet every time he is met with the slicing of one’s neck, blood seeping into the concrete below. He snarls, turning away, aware as Slade’s eye cast over to him. Watching. Waiting.

It’s not his fucking place, and Roy keeps his mouth shut. Hands tight. Nipples, fucking goddamn nipples, hurt like hell.

Slade decapitates two more robbers with ease. Roy finds his eyes have hardened, steely, iron even as they trace the spilling of their blood, even as Slade dips his hand into the red pool, pressing two fingers onto Roy’s cheek.

“Too slow,” he whispers, more of a taunt than anything. Roy sneers, teeth flashing, and his jaws clamp down on empty air as Slade retracts his fingers.

“Fuck you,” Roy hisses. Slade stares down at him. He could shoot him, stab him, gut him clean and leave him bleeding out in a ditch somewhere for Ollie to find. He could figure his way around that fucking blade and skewer Roy right through his ribs, hang him from a fucking tower in display. Reminder.

Fucking vulnerable, asleep in bed, eyes open to the man staring down at him.

Let’s play a game.

Fucks sake.

“Manners. Didn’t Oliver teach you anything?” Roy grimaces, eyes averting. Rude, stinging knowledge, armed just to prick at sore wounds.

“Fuck off. He’s not my dad.” They’re not even partners, not really, no more equal than a human and his dog. There’s just a slick sound of metal before Roy finds himself angled upward, eyes baring into Slade’s, the tip of his bloodied blade pressed against his throat. It draws blood, clearly, sliding down his neck, into his shirt.

“Manners,” Slade repeats. Roy spits in his fucking face, and this time, it hits the target.

He’s got hardly a second to prepare before Slade’s fists dig into his collar, throwing him up against the window of a store, cracks spidering along the surface. Roy gasps, croaks, spit and blood swirling out of his mouth as his hands claw at the surface, only to shout as a hand forces him back, throwing him right through the glass. It shatters around him, alarm blaring loud and heavy, and then Slade’s hand is on his throat, clenching, choking even as Roy’s hands scramble up his arm, screaming.

He can’t breathe, can’t fucking breathe, fists aiming and weakly smashing at Slade’s face. The world dims dark and hazy, spots beginning to pop and swirl in his sight, and Roy’s jaw falls slack, useless against the insistent pressure on his throat. Even the noise begins to die down, quiet, blurred, the smell of leather placed over his nose.

The pressure lifts. Roy coughs, lungs screaming, as a hand grapples around his waist and hauls him up. His legs, feet, something somewhere kick out, though the world is meek behind the tears brimming in his eyes. His hands slap at the arm carrying him, head lolling.

“Truly a brat,” Slade prods, and then Roy finds himself grunting, rolling on the floor before hands grasp onto his neck again. His head swims, hands clawing at Slade’s neck, when a hand grinding down onto his chest makes him gasp, spitting. His legs flail uselessly, eyes bulging as breath cuts short.

Roy finds himself bouncing off a soft surface when his throat releases, air burning along his lungs as he heaves, spit and blood dripping onto familiar sheets. Slade stares down at him, knees bent over, as Roy shivers and wheezes, tears prickling at his eyes. Warm, and cold, so fucking dizzy. Fucking Slade.

A hand pries at his zipper, pulling it downward and shoving the leather off his skin. Roy grunts, rolling onto his side, landing a hazy punch against Slade’s jaw. It earns him a grunt from the other, though the hand doesn’t still, instead wrenching under his shirt to pull at the clamps.


Fucking Slade.

Roy hisses, feeling heat bloom at his cheeks, his legs hooking up to kick at Slade’s hips. Slade grunts, leg slamming down to crush against Roy’s thighs. Roy shouts, pain coursing through his body emphasized by the cruel pulls and twists of his nipples.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Roy cries out, back arching. His hand makes a swipe at Slade’s head, catching across his eye, and Slade growls, hand slamming down onto his throat.

“Behave, brat.” Roy coughs, and then he’s being dragged downward, legs squirming as a hand grapples with his pants. He bites down on his lip as he freezes, eyes wide as Slade pulls his pants off completely, a knee rocking at Roy’s groin.

“Fuck, fuck you, goddamn old man,” Roy hisses. He winces, eyes squeezed tight, as Slade hooks his hands back onto the clamps and pulls them, forcing Roy to crane his neck. It hurts, it fucking burns, and he bites down on a sob.

“I told you to behave,” Slade’s voice is a murmur, every syllable a pressure against Roy’s head. Then his leg is shifting, presses against Roy’s, drawing a startled shout. “Look at you,” and, oh, how he hates him, “so needy.”

His cheeks burn at the accusation, though he can’t still the crippling whines building at his throat. He hates him, hates this, hates the guilty desire burning in his chest when Slade rocks his knee against him, when the pinch and pull of those fucking clamps make him whimper, teeth biting at his lower lip. He fucking hates how his hands circle Slade’s, how his head falls back, how he wishes just the tiniest bit that Slade would finally fucking kiss him.

“For fuck’s, God, just,” Roy grunts, a hand falling over his mouth in an attempt to silence the moans spilling out, “Slade, fucking touch me.” 

Fucking asshole. Slade laughs, a rumbling mocking taunt of a laugh as his hands press the clamps from side to side, causing Roy to writhe and pant. A hand, finally, drops down to drag his underwear then, cupping his balls. Rolling them between his fingers, pinching the wrinkled skin. Dragging his thumb upward. Grinding onto Roy’s head, just to see his eyes fly wide, just to see his back arch, spit drooling from his mouth.

“Imagine If Oliver could see you now.”

Fury, fucking fury and anger and spitfire rage, boil within Roy and then he’s slamming his fist at Slade’s side. It does something, clearly, sending the man off the bed before Roy’s tumbling after him, landing hit after hit on his stupid fucking face. He gets kicked in the side, throwing him off, a hand grappling at his chin so that the other can punch his face in. Roy grits his teeth and scratches at Slade’s eye, and when the man flinches back, it’s cold satisfaction that surges him forward. 

It’s not a kiss so much as a battle, Roy’s teeth insistent and clashing and tearing at Slade’s flesh. The man relents, just a moment, just enough for Roy to slide his tongue in before he’s being flipped over, yelling as he hits the floor. Slade slams his hand on his neck, fucking sadist, and grinds his teeth at Roy’s skin before a hand comes down to slap at his dick. He yells, loud, hurt, before it squeezes and gropes and sends startled moans and cries from his lips.

“Brat,” he hates this, fucking hates this, red and hazy and needy, “how many times do I need to discipline you?” The hand releases his throat, driving wheezing coughs, and then they’re back on his fucking nipples, red, puffy, oversensitive. 

“Fuck, fuck, fucking shitty ass,” Roy’s taunts trail off into another moan ashes hand squeezes at the base of his dick. He’s hard, so fucking hard, red and flushed and wanting with the need to tear Slade’s head right off his body. Slade sneers at his ear, nothing more than a warning, a reminder, and then the clamps slip off his nipples. Relief, pleasure, pain, course into Roy’s head, clamps thrown at his dick, hand pressing against him. He’s cumming like that, an angry howl of an orgasm, hips shaking and tears brimming and so fucking mad.

It isn’t until the room stops spinning that he can register the drool on his chin, the tears on his cheeks, the hand in his hair. It feels good, unfairly good, safe and content for just a moment when it slides down to caress his head. Unfair. So fucking unfair, when Slade registers that he’s awake, when Slade pulls his hand away, wiping it on his pant leg as though he wasn’t the one who touched Roy to begin with. As though he wasn’t the one who chased Roy down and handled him against the floor and gives him fucking messy excuse of kisses.

“I should go.” He should, he really fucking should, and Roy watched him stand with lidded eyes.

“Fuck you,” he spits. It’s weak, voice hoarse, but he shifts his hands down to lift himself upward. He’s trembling, pathetic, made so by Slade’s hand. Humiliation courses through him at the thought, no doubt echoing in Slade’s mind.

“Carry- Carry me to bed.” The least he can do, for the weakness that’s taken hold of Roy’s limbs, his body, his mind. His heart. Lurching, trembling, when Slade does, hands fucking gentle as they cup Roy and deposit him back into his bed. They even grasp at his blankets, tugging them up to his chin. Slade watches him, the flutter of his eyelids, the drop of his mouth. Exhaustion washes over him, at this, at Slade, at the piss poor excuse of a love life he’s been given. 

Slade leaves without a fucking word, out the window, out into the rest of the world. He’s probably going to kill another handful of people, stop a few robberies, stab a person Roy’s wandered around at least twice in school campus. He’s a goddamn criminal, a psycho, a fucking bare bone excuse of a human being.

But he pat Roy’s hair, held his cheek, the ghost of a kiss against his scalp. A fucking perverted coward, unwilling to make the move in daylight. Roy hates him.

He leaves his window unlocked.


Chapter Text

            The window shatters on impact, glass flying inward to coat the office tiles, screams of passerby employees echoing throughout the floor. A giant crayfish cackles in delight, its claws smacking noisily against the sidewalk, cracking the cement down in lines. A woman yelps as it grabs her car, lifting it over its arm and then throwing it at another building, causing the steel pipes within to bend over, ugly, beginnings of a collapse.

            “Hahaha! Is there no one powerful enough to take me on?” The crustacean roars as he stomps down, claws puncturing passing cars and windows. His claw catches on a television display, ripping through the tower with ease, causing sparks to fly.

            “Hm? Who are you, baldy?” A single man roams the streets still, carrying grocery bags stuffed with leeks and ground beef, and seemingly two boxes worth of ramen. He’d be the perfect example of an abnormally average man if not for the nudity of his head—how unfortunate. The crustacean laughs, waving his arms by his side.

            “You better run, baldy, or I’ll crush you flat!” He swings his arm right through a telephone pole, causing it to break in half, smashing into the side of a building. Crayfish cackles, making boxing motions with his arms. Baldy looks at him, then at the grocery store behind him, waiting.

            The door slides open to reveal who could be a very pretty boy, if not for the obvious cybernetic enhancements that run along his body, from his arms to his feet. Baldy waves at him.

            “Yo, let’s go home.” Even his voice is average. The crustacean laughs, looming overhand. Easy prey, pathetically so. He hasn’t had a chance to do some real damage just yet, wanting to properly wait for a television crew to catch his bloody victory, but some opportunities just can’t be passed up. He raises his arms into the air, and slams them downward.

            Saitama raises a hand, letting his eyes slide shut, tossing Genos his groceries. In a moment, he is soaked in blood and intestines, the spilled guts of a crayfish flopping off his form. Where once stood a tiger level threat is now just flimsy skinny legs, and Saitama sighs as he wipes his now bloody hands against his equally red pants.

            “Aww, I wanted crayfish hot pot,” Saitama confesses. Genos startles, digging into their grocery bags, only to be quelled by a shake of Saitama’s head. “Too expensive. Alright, let’s go.”

            Dinner is hot pot without crayfish—noodles, leek, fish balls and layers of tripe. King comes over to play Super Smash with Saitama, Genos watching and only being slightly biased in who he cheers for. They eat and laugh and play, a quiet evening for a quiet day.

            It isn’t until King leaves, the door sliding shut behind him, that Genos’ arms come around Saitama.

            “Sensei,” breathing, light, easy, even though Genos’ hands are sliding up Saitama’s sweater, even though he’s pinching at his nipple, “you were so amazing again, today.” Unnecessary, the flow of air, the flush of blood, all unnecessary elements. Genos face is—still, raw, simple, and yet, when Saitama turns to meet his eyes, he cannot still the stumbling of his heart at the sight.

            “Genos, shouldn’t we clean up?” Saitama responds, yet his fingers squeeze at Genos’ wrist, yet his face inches just a bit closer to Genos’ lips.

            “I already did, sensei,” Genos replies, of course. He would, cleaning and cooking and bustling, sprinkling light and color and life into Saitama’s life even as his eyes tremble to slip shut, determined to live in the greys and blacks and whites in the world. Genos presses his lips, rubber, synthetic, to Saitama, sighing.

            He doesn’t quite get it. How the stars sparkle in Genos’ eyes, how the colors flare bright on the patterns of his hair. How the light seems to bend around Genos arms, his legs, shifting in the air with every brush and tremble of his motors. How the world itself is dyed rainbow with the sounds of shifting grass and grinds of cars, the chatter of shoppers and the smell of oden, the warmth radiating off Genos smile, his lips, kissing Saitama’s.

            How Saitama finds himself in a path of color, staring ahead at a grey and black and metallic man soaked in life.

            “I love you, sensei,” confessional, guilty, hopeful. As though the words that slip through Genos’ lips are unwanted.

            “Yeah,” Saitama murmurs back, rocking against Genos, holding him close. The futon is folded up, away, the tables wiped clean. Even the games had been wrapped and put away into the cabinets beneath the television.

            “Want the futon?” He offers. Genos looks at him, slow, eyes blinking.

            “Sure.” Genos slips from his arms, trotting over to unfold and smooth the futons. In his absence, Saitama finds the air suddenly colder. He walks over, hands in his pockets, waiting. When Genos finishes setting the futon up, he beams, arms gesturing to it empathetically.

            Sweet. The room glows a little brighter.

            “Would you like to join me, sensei?” As though Genos would do anything without Saitama being there. Saitama shrugs, dropping to his knees, shuffling off his pants.

            Genos places his hand against Saitama’s, carding their fingers together. Saitama slows, eyes flickering up. Right.

            “Yeah,” he breathes, “Okay.”

            It’s… odd. He’s still used to the gradients of grey overlaying the room, the dull ache when he presses his hand against his groin, grinding. In the past, it was more a chore than anything, the routine methodology of cleaning his mistakes. Life still seems slow, sometimes. Genos helps.

            Genos helps a lot.

            “Would I, is this alright, sensei?” The first time, he had gone and torn Genos’ leg tissues, slipping and impaling his silicone connector with his dick. As silly as it is in hindsight, the true fear of Doctor Kuseno ripping him apart struck Saitama to his core. Nowadays, it’s safer to simply slick up with lube and slide between Genos’ thighs.

            “That’s great,” Saitama murmurs. He’s soft, just a small chub in his palms, but it’s enough. Genos rolls over to his side, presenting the softer, smooth silicone insides of his thighs to Saitama. It’s easy enough to slide in, turn over, and kiss Genos against his lips.

            “Can I move?” Always, just a whisper, Saitama slipping his hands upwards Genos’ hips. It is always a note of interest how well his body is crafted, how lovingly Saitama can slip his hands along the dents and curves forming lines along Genos’ form. Genos sighs against Saitama’s lips, humming, the low vibrations shaking his jaw.

            “Of course, sensei.” Genos moves first, just the slow rocking of his hips against Saitama, arms coming back to entangle their fingers, pulling his arms forward to better wrap around Genos. Saitama allows it, allows him, letting Genos set the pace before angling his cock, moving his own hips to better thrust into Genos. The lube makes his silicone remarkably smooth, slippery, and Saitama finds a rhythm with ease.

            They fuck like that, make love, like that. Just Saitama, pressed against Genos, arms wrapped around the other. His own space heater, what with the fans kicking in, what with how wet, how warm, how easy it is for him to rock between Genos’ willing thighs. His own beloved, soft despite the metal, human despite the wires, golden pupils bright as he cranes his neck over to kiss at Saitama.

            Hard, leaking just the bit along Genos’ legs. Kissing at his neck, biting at his wires, hearing the pleasured gasps and shakes that quiver Genos’ body. Saitama draws moans and whines and mewls from his lover, digitalized color, turned to light. To volume. To the sweetest serenade, dazzling, dizzying.

            “I love you, sensei.” Love, Saitama thinks, made not of fireworks and pixie dust, not of torn up love letters and girls with high ponytails swaying in the wind. Love, not of human flesh, human skin, not of long locks and lashes. Love, not of fear and regret, not of gifts and cash, not of necessary anniversaries of days that don’t really matter.

            Saitama presses a kiss to Genos’ head.

            He cums, just the spilling of semen onto Genos. The slightest shake of his hands, the flush of his cheeks, kissing at Genos. Kissing with Genos, the slide of their lips together, the brush of their tongues. Synthetic. Wanting. Needing.

            The smile on Genos face when he wakes up in the morning, smell of breakfast in the air. The curve of his mouth at the door when he returns, the cheerful tilt of his voice, the letters Doctor Kuseno writes to Saitama about how far he’s come. How careful he is. How gentle he is.

            The happy hum throughout Genos’ body as Saitama pulls out, eyes admiring the little mess left behind. The crook of his lips, rocking forward, hands cupping Saitama’s chin. Lips meeting, again, and again.

            Yeah. Yeah. Love.

Chapter Text

            If there were any solid proof of the goddess interfering with Dimitri’s life, it must be apparent in his students at the academy. Their kindness, their easy smiles, the casual gestures with which they address each other. Here, he is no heir to Faerghus, rather, just another student. Just another pair of wandering eyes.

            Just yet another boy to be messed with by flushed lips and lidded eyes.

            It’s unfair, really, how pretty some of his classmates are. Some could even be mistaken for females from the back, and some surely have. Ashe, in particular, with his glossy hair and slim waist, made particularly softer by the gentle smile tugging at his lips. Lindhart, who prods Dimitri when they encounter at the library, who is so occupied with collecting research on achieving his ideals to realize his own existing ones, the fall of his green locks, the gentle cross of his arms, creases in the fabric. Sylvain, who taunts and plays with the local women despite Dimitri’s scolding, who adorns skimpy clothing that show the dips of his hips, the slope of his legs. Claude, who’s eyes glitter like emeralds, smile false and pretty, made prettier by the gentle flush of pink from ear to ear when caught in his own web of lies.

            Felix, who pants as he stands on shaking legs, wooden sword still clutched in hand, hair spilling over his shoulders. Felix, who glares at Dimitri as though he is less than dirt, as though Felix should purge him from this world and would, with the appropriate power. Felix, who steadies himself and rushes forward, gashes and slits along his armor making clear the indents of his waist, the twists of his legs.

            Felix, who Dimitri thrusts his sword against and forces onto the ground, practice weapons knocked clean form their grasp. Felix, who looks awfully upset, sweat beading along his face, arms scratching and kicking at Dimitri. A knee smashes into Dimitri’s side and he grunts, arms bending just a moment. It’s enough for Felix to kick out again, rolling out form Dimitri’s hold and rising to his feet, fists raised.

            “Get up, boar.” It should be anger, righteous fury, that sparks within Dimitri at the words. From another pair of lips, he imagines that he’d be more ignited, hands steady as he rises to his knees to the balls of his feet, rocking in place.

            “Shall we finish this?” From Felix, the words mean nothing at all. Dimitri’s eyes slide over to his friend’s, fingers clenching, unclenching. His chest rises and falls a steady rhythm, tired eyes focusing on the loose fall of Felix’s bangs against his face, the matted edges slick with sweat. The barest tremble of exhaustion pulls at his limbs—Felix’s stamina, when excited, is truly a force to be dealt with.

            It’s what makes them such good sparring partners. Made, really, changed entirely when professor joined the academy.

            “Focus!” The word startles Dimitri into movement, side-stepping back as a fist soars past where his face would have been a moment before. Felix’s eyes are hard, heavy, as closed as steel as they track Dimitri back, his other hand coming forward to smash against his shoulder. Dimitri bites down a grunt, teeth digging into his cheeks, spinning back to slam a foot against Felix’s shin. His friend topples forward, unsteady, strands of hair loose behind him.

            Dimitri is tempted to take his ponytail and pull. Snap his head back and grind his knee against his stomach. He would, in battle. In war.

            This is no such event.

            “Surrender!” Dimitri shouts, and then his hands grapple with Felix’s wrists, tugging him to the ground. Felix shouts, teeth grinding, legs kicking out against Dimitri’s thighs, his hips. Awfully flexible, able, and even then Dimitri finds himself hovering over Felix, legs carefully perched to press Felix further into the dirt.

            “No!” Felix spits, screeches, his wrist tugging free of Dimitri’s grasp and swinging upward. It is a foolish mistake, the closing of his eyes, and then there is the sharp shock of pain flooding him from his jaw. Dimitri has barely a second’s chance to breathe before slamming his elbow down against the backs of Felix’s shoulder blades, drawing a sharp intake of breath.

            They’re panting, alike, dirty and bloodied. Every inhale from Felix is accompanied by a slow quiver, Dimitri pressing him further into the dirt.

            “Surrender.” A command. Not a request, nor a suggestion. A command, from future king to advisor. Felix shakes, and even just from the back of his head, his blue locks muddy and tangled from the spar, Dimitri can envision the angry scowl he’s come to associate with his friend for too long.

            “I give.”

            Dimitri is up in a moment, knees springing him back and off Felix. His friend takes a moment longer, simply panting on his knees, before standing with his back still to Dimitri.

            “W-What a fantastic practice! Felix, you’ve really impro—”

            “Shut up, boar.” Dimitr’s jaw snaps shut, his eyes darting to the side. Ah. Yes. He’d almost forgotten, in the rush of combat, that the fury and spittle from Felix was more than just temporary mockery. Months, years, of growing resentment sag at his friend, and even with Dimitri’s tired eyes pressing into his back, he walks away without a glance back.

            “I will see you in the dinner hall!” His voice carries in the empty grounds, Felix stomping away. His face must be marred with dirt, his clothes ruined and torn. Guilt claws at Dimitri’s chest, his hands clenching at his front. He should chase after Felix, offer to properly clean him up. It’s what friends do.

            Instead he watches Felix’s blurring back, the stray strands of hair loose from his ponytail. They fall over his shoulders, framing the slightest pulls of fabric against his back. Powerful, dangerous, despite the small form of his waist.



            Felix doesn’t show for dinner.

            It’s not a surprise, nor too much of a disappointment. Dedue joins him, and with him follows an intriguing mix of Ashe, Annette, and further behind, Sylvain, Lorenz and Marianne. The last certainly seems uncomfortable, out of place, particularly when Sylvain and Lorenz take to discussing the beauties in their school, pointed eyes drawing target marks on her scrunched form. It must be pity, or genuine embarrassment at their exaggerated needs, that pulls him to speak to her.

            Marianne ends up being a delightful conversationalist. Quiet, yes, though lovely. Dimitri finds himself taken with her, gentle mannerisms, fallen eyes, tiny lips. When he coaxes a single smile from her, blue locks curled lovingly around her face, he finds himself at a loss.

            “Oh,” her voice stills, eyes scanning the room, “weren’t you looking for someone? Did they ever show?” Dimitri follows her gaze, hands clenching at the table. It splinters under his fingers, just the slightest, and he gathers the pieces into his palm.

            “No,” he assures her. “I wasn’t.”

            Sylvain’s eyes on him last the rest of the night, until a pretty maiden takes his hand, huffing loudly. No doubt some past mistake resurfaced, biting at his heels.

            Dimitri walks Marianne to her room. She bids him farewell, head craned down, braid slightly mused from the day’s work. He watches her go.


            Just as surprise failed to grip Dimitri at dinner two nights before, he finds himself in the same hazy mood at the sight of Felix and professor sparring on the grounds. Felix spins around, words spitting, wooden swords clashing at their heads. Professor Byleth takes one glance at him, a wicked grin notched on her face, tipping back a step. Dimitri can see her plan, see it unfold so clearly, and despite how obvious he finds the trap Felix rushes forward still, mind red with such normal fury.

            Byleth knocks his sword straight from his hand, and then forces her sword to smash against his arm. Felix jerks, loud grunt slipping out from his teeth, as Byleth drops her sword to simply smash a fist into his stomach. Dimitri flinches, eyes wide, as Felix’s feet fly from the ground a moment, toppling over as soon as they return to the dirt. Byleth gives Felix no such mercy, rushing over to grasp at his face, his hair, her fingers digging into loose locks and grinding him against the ground.

            There is no call for surrender. No gesture of kindness.

            “You lose.” Then her hand rises, spinning back, eyes catching on Dimitri hidden against the pillar. He startles, books and papers in his hand falling to the floor, a startling clatter against the still peace. Felix’s eyes dart to him, sharp, wary. Angry.

            Always so angry.

            “What are you looking at?” He shouts, his voice echoing in the courtyard. Byleth turns to him, reprimanding, though the words have already been spoken. Dimitri could laugh, scooping his supplies back up into his arms, stepping away.

            Friends. They’re friends.

            He crushes a paper in his grip.


            Dimitri can see why Claude is called a master tactician, even at his young age. His feet flurry fast on the practice grounds, though his mind even faster, and Dimitri finds himself ruminating for a moment how wary he would be if the professor and Claude were to come to strategize on a plan together. How long would Fodlan last, against such a strange combination?

            No time to wonder that, when he has Claude on hand, sparring match steps from finishing.

            For his quick mind, Claude is still only just one person. Dimitri shatters his wooden arrows with ease, spear knocking many to the ground, the few piercing ones just gentle tugs and pulls in his uniform. It takes a while, certainly, to chase Claude to a corner of the field, but once then it’s startlingly easy to snap his bow, grasp at his shoulders, pull him down to the floor. Claude startles, feet kicking out to hook at Dimitri’s waist, pulling them flush just to press something to the back of Dimitri’s neck.

            “Checkmate.” The easy smile on Claude’s face betrays the rise and fall of his chest, the sweat along his brows, the spittle and blood from a cut on his lips. Dimitri stills, the weight of the wooden dagger against his neck easy, knowing that it wouldn’t kill him, even if Claude were to stab him seriously. Claude must realize too, for his arm droops and the dagger falls to the side, useless.

            “I could have killed you before, on anyone of these,” Dimitri murmurs. His hand traces the tattered ends of Claude’s uniform, significantly more damaged than his own, dried flecks of blood soaked in the gold and black fabric. The golden cape Claude adorns is winkled and torn below him, his hair a stark contrast on the shiny fabric.

            “Yeah,” Claude shrugs, his fingers trailing downward to poke at Dimitri’s wrist. Easy. Casual. “You could have.” Claude grasps his wrists and pulls his hands upward. Dimitri lets him, swaying, wary, his knees caught around Claude’s thighs. He’s warm, radiating it, pressing Dimitri’s hands flush against his throat. Dimitri stares, eyes hollow. Watching.

            “You could,” Claude says. His hands fall to the ground around his face, one pulling at his braid, loose and messy from their spar. His eyes are—green, emerald, pretty. Pretty.

            Dimitri’s fingers tighten. Claude’s breath catches, eyes widening, surprise evident as it flickers across his face. It is gone in just a moment, though his fingers clench, once, twice, and Dimitri can see the hint of pink of his tongue pressed against his teeth.

            He presses his thumb at Claude’s chin. Claude swallows, his throat bobbing against the pressure. Light. Weak. Hardly a pressure, a presence, and he knows it, flush climbing upward from his throat to his cheeks to his ears, pink and light and pretty. Dimitri squeezes his hands, just once, the slightest pressure.

            “I could,” he whispers. He could. He could.

            Claude trembles under his grasp. Emerald eyes, sparkling against the dark of his skin, an exotic fairy in the halls of Garreg Mach, dart to Dimitri’s face. Claude’s lips shake with his breaths, caught, tight, and his hands finally return to grasping at Dimitri’s wrist. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t shake, doesn’t tug. Just lays them there, flat. Easy.

            Deer. Prey.

            Dimitri’s hands touch around Claude’s neck, and then he’s pushing. Just tensing, just breathing, heart thudding in his throat. Claude wheezes, high, easy, and then his hands are tugging at Dimitri’s wrist. He hardly feels them.

            It would be too easy to crush Claude right now, right under his hands.

            “You should see Manuela for your wounds,” Dimitri advises, and then his hands are off, spinning on his feet. Claude coughs behind him, a whining shrill thing, as Dimitri scoops down to pick at the wooden splinters that were once arrows. He doesn’t need to turn to hear the stamping of feet on the ground, wary, fearful. Truly a deer, just this once, caught tight in a hunter’s hands. Dimitri wonders how class tomorrow will be.

            The training ground clears, just him and broken wooden sticks. Dimitri cleans it alone, picking up the tatters of cloth, rubbing at the spilling of blood. His stomach burns, and he groans, wiping a hand over his face.

            Lion. Predator.

            He wants to hunt.


            A week of classes, dinners, sparring pass by Dimitri’s wandering mind. He finds that he prefers his left foot while kicking high, and that he could learn a thing or two from the archers on flexibility, wowed by Ashe’s effortless somersaults and splits. He catches Claude’s eye, just once, at the beginning of the week, and the other had just shrugged and smirked before returning to a conversation with Marianne. Her gaze had glanced his way, wary, hidden, and he lets her.

            His eyes trail on Dedue’s back the entire week.

            “Is the material alright, your highness?” Dimitri twitches, angling to better face Dedue. They’ve been holed up in the library, textbooks open, as midterms approach. As adapt as Dimitri is at physical activity, books detailing the study of crests and human anatomy are a little more difficult, as is health. He simply does not understand how Sylvain could walk out of Manuela’s class enlightened with the knowledge of a body’s inner workings.

            Dimitri would ask him for help, if only Sylvain would not inevitably be conversing about the body’s openings instead, some crude lines about women and their natural beauty. Dimitri can agree only so far when Sylvain is the one waving his hands, laughing, throat bobbing as he throws lines and smiles his way.

            Dedue taps his textbook, startling Dimitri back to the script at hand.

            “Yes, yes, thank you,” Dimitri murmurs. It’s—uncertain. He’s uncertain. There’s so much to do, tests to be taken, spars to schedule, and a cold looming presence that wavers over his head. The church has been quite busy as of late, dealing with assassinations, revolts, and guilt swarms in Dimitri at thinking of Sylvain in such a callous way when the other must be wrestling with anxiety over his brother. His hands curl at the pages before him, pressing the book’s spine flat.

            “You need not worry.” Dedue is kind, sweet to his core, and Dimitri glances his way. He is smiling, of course, the barest hint on his lips as he nods. “Your highness, you are one of the smartest students here. I am certain that you will test spectacularly.”

            Dimitri laughs, his fingers pushing the textbook just a centimeter forward, to better place his notebook onto the table. They’ve managed to crowd up the entire surface with references and text, unlit candles lining the edge of the table. They ought to light them soon, with dust fast approaching. It truly is autumn, and Dimitri can see yellowing leaves on the trees hanging overhead, the courtyard empty below them.

            Empty except for a single soul.

            “Thank you,” Dimitri echoes, closing one book and substituting another in. “Though, Dedue, I believe that you will test better than you believe. After all,” he laughs, gesturing to the display of open books at his table, “I still cannot seem to wrap my head around bodily studies.”

            “Then, your highness, please permit me to assist in your studying.” He does, of course, granting the same wellness to his friend as every passing day. Dimitri wishes that they would be able to converse in relative peace, safety, here tucked away into the library, sheltered from wandering ears and judgmental eyes. His hand traces Dedue’s, simply sliding his wrist onto the table, palm up. Dedue pauses, index pointing at a display of a human body’s pectorals, before placing their wrists together.

            Dimitri squeezes his wrist. Dedue allows. He would, of course, allow Dimitri with—with any of this. It is almost unfair, and Dimitri swallows down the bitter pill of guilt and disappointment as Dedue slips forward to point out another text.

            “Within the forearm are the palmaris longus, flexor carpi radialis, flexor capri ulnaris…” They trace the figures, read the text, jot notes down together. Their chairs scuff the floor with their movements, legs kicking, fingers pinching at papers. One book slides into another, chapter by chapter, as other students filter in and out of the library. Hilda surveys them at one point, humming, though Dedue shoos her away. He fails, however, to do it quickly enough, and Dimitri spends at minimum three minutes laughing at the cutesy pink ribbons that adorn Dedue’s tiny pigtails.

            Annette, it appears, has been having similar struggles with body, and they share the text until Ferdinand wanders by, chatting with her about his supposed intimate knowledge of the subject. They discover rather quickly that Ferdinand knows little of the body, and Dimitri is willing to lend them two recommended readings on the subject. Dedue’s hand leaves his every time a body wanders close, and Dimitri finds himself pinching just the slightest at Dedue’s skin.

            “Phalanges are another word for fingers.” Dimitri hums, pulling himself upward to light the candles. Dusk has since fallen, and the library is dark now sans the artificial glow of ceiling lights, though dim. Dedue continues reading, fingers tracing the text, voice remarkably steady despite the hours that have passed between the two, two closed books finished and returned. Lindhart had raised an eyebrow at the sheer amount remaining. It would, at the least, have been better than when Hubert had caught them after hours two days back, chuckling darkly at their slumped forms.

            Arched over the lights, watching the fire dance from wick to wick, Dimitri can spy outside the window. The leaves are darkened now, silhouettes under the night sky, tousled by the breeze. It is through their cracks that Dimitri can see, through snapped branches and bird nests, under vines and amongst weeds, the lone figure practicing with their sword.

            Felix’s shoulders rise as he swings again, feet coming forward and then hitting the ground as his sword slams down. Dimitri’s eyes track him, his long cast shadow along the floor, crackled and bumpy along the fallen leaves. His hair swirls around his figure, loose, free, as his feet kick up high into the air. Dimitri feels his jaw slacken in recognition. He’s been practicing that kick, aided by Ashe. He’s never managed to get it quick so high.

            Felix slams his foot down and spins. For a moment, just the slightest, his hair parts from his neck, slick with sweat along his skin. His arms fall to his side, breathing, surely, just catching his breath. Dimitri’s hand tremors, candle wick alight.

            Felix drags a hand through his hair, the pale nape of his night illuminating in the night.

            “Your highness?” Dimitri squawks, startling backward. The candle slips from his fingers and he yelps, hands flying out to catch it. Dedue is a moment quicker, securing it and placing it sharply onto the table, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet of the library. Dimitri wheezes, acutely aware of the sudden hammering of his chest, the quirked brow of Dedue surveying him.

            “Oh,” Dedue murmurs, glancing out the window. “Your highness, were you thinking of heading to the practice grounds for a moment of fresh air? I shall accompany you.” Dimitri swats at his chest, feet steadying, before stumbling over to fall onto his chair. Sudden exhaustion, hours of studying, sag at his shoulders.

            “Isn’t someone using the grounds? We shouldn’t interrupt him.” Dimitri sighs, dragging a hand along his face. Unbelievable.

            “There’s no one there.” Dimitri blinks, eyes wide, before darting back upward to stare out the window. Just as Dedue said, the grounds are empty, dark with just the matted texture of crinkled leaves along the floor. Dimitri sighs a tired chuckle, slumping in his chair.

            “I think—I think we’ve studied quite enough for tonight. Dedue, shall we return to our chambers?”

            Dimitri takes with him two textbooks to study for the night, though Dedue’s wary eyes warn him that he will not be able to stay up for long, least not if he wishes to use a flickering candle’s light. One of the books is of the reading about human bone structure, and its relation to crests. The other is one that they’ve gone through twice before, and yet, Dimitri clutches it close to his chest.

            There is an excerpt within about beauty, purity, the curve of a woman’s nape. Dimitri reads it thrice over, face warm, an image of blue locks falling over a dirtied collar, ripped from combat, floating overhead.


            It’s arrogance, not confidence, that keeps Sylvain walking down the hall despite the pressing concerns murmured around him, particularly by female students and guards. Yet, despite the rumors, Dimitri spies him with a new face clinging to his shoulder at every glance, every night another crumpled with tears, running off from Sylvain’s call.

            “Must you be like this?” Dimitri grouses, much to Sylvain’s lost amusement. His beloved friend only offers a roll of his eyes, gesturing at the empty space where the woman once stood.

            “Relax, Dimitri, we were just having some fun.” He doubts it, showing plainly on his face. Sylvain raises his hands, expression particularly innocent. “Woah, woah, don’t get telling Ingrid. We’re fine, really.” Right. Well.

            “I will inform her,” Dimitri bites out, stiff. Sylvain certainly deserves the inevitable scolding—Dimitri has informed him time and time again of his maturity, playing with other’s hearts so freely, and yet Sylvain continues at it. The most miffing thing of all is perhaps how easily it all comes to him—Dimitri has even spied men on Sylvain’s arms before, smiling wide, cheery eyes, particularly pretty.

            Something dangerous bubbles in Dimitri’s chest and he huffs, turning away from his friend.

            “Aww, Dimitri, what’s wrong?” Sylvain’s hand pats at his shoulders, light, easy, though his tone takes a turn for the serious. “Come on, we’re old friends. You can tell me anything.”

            “Nothing.” He is an awful liar, and his face burns as Sylvain laughs. The chuckles peter off, and then Dimitri is watching Sylvain brush loose strands from his face, eyes alight with something—more. The hand on his shoulder rubs at the soft muscle beneath his collar. Sylvain takes a step closer, then another, and then they’re nearly nose to nose, Dimitri’s eyes wide.

            “Nothing? Really?” Unfair, the warmth of Sylvain’s breath hitting at Dimitri’s nose, and he is red, red, awfully, embarrassingly red. Dimitri stutters, taking a step back, waving his hands at his friend’s chest, suddenly shaking with another bout of laughter.

            “Sorry! Sorry, sorry!” Sylvain’s chuckles do nothing to quell the angry grit of Dimitri’s teeth, the humiliating pang of his chest. He scoffs, properly shamed, until Sylvain’s eyes turn serious, hand returning to grasp at Dimitri’s wrist.

            “No, come on. Sorry.” Sylvain squeezes at Dimitri, eyes falling to the ground amount before his mouth quirks upwards yet again. “I couldn’t resist. Just, I saw you watching. You know, earlier.”

            “And what? I should have come to scold you even sooner?” Dimitri frowns. Sylvain sighs, his fingers slipping off Dimitri. For a thundering second, he wants to grab it back, knuckles twitching. Sylvain stares at their hands a moment before, before crossing his arms, hunched.

            “No, no. It wasn’t your I’m-gonna-tell-Ingrid face, it was your, uh, you know,” Sylvain waves a hand in the hand. Dimitri keeps his brows decidedly furrowed, crossing his own arms. Sylvain is silent a moment longer, eyes darting to the ground, and it is only now that Dimitri notices the creeping pink at the backs of his ears.

            “You looked like you wanted, uh, to be involved. Like, you know,” his ears are really burning now, pink, though Dimitri can’t deny the growing redness in his own face as realization hits. He sputters for a moment, jaw wide, yet Sylvain continues. “Like, like you wanted to be there. Comforting her. Or, or being comforted. Or, maybe,” his voice trails off, the unspoken third option lingering the air. Comforting Sylvain, holding him close after yet another woman runs off.

            Dimitri groans, running his hand down his face. They’re both blushing now, awkward silence permeating the air between them. However Dimitri’s life has come to this, he still isn’t sure.

            “That’s not, that’s not what I wanted,” Dimitri corrects. Sylvain makes a grunting noise, eyes still pointedly turned away. Perhaps it’s for the best, if only so Dimitri can avoid having them stare back.

            “Well,” Sylvain coughs, hitting his chest squarely. “Then, I guess I’ve taught you a lesson in flirting. Be forward! Women love it when you’re forward! They like being chased!” Dimitri frowns, brows back up. Women do not, in his experience, like being chased. Dorothea and Edelgard alike could confirm his suspicions, and even without consulting them he has seen a lifetime of girls displeased with Sylvain’s hounding.

            Men, however, are a little different. Dimitri hums, acutely aware of his hands grappling with each other. They’re both still a little pink, turned from each other.

            “Sylvain! What’s this I hear about you breaking someone else’s heart?” They both startle at that, and oh, there Ingrid is, fist jabbing at the air. The bare outline of Bernadetta hides behind her, ducking away immediately as Ingrid leans out the window.

            “Oh, crap, bye Dimitri! Take my advice to heart!” With that, Sylvain darts away, Ingrid’s shouting left behind him. She exits the window a moment later, no doubt rushing down to give him a proper scolding. Mood sufficiently ruined, Dimitri sighs, eyes wandering to Bernadetta peering out the window.

            He waves at her. She startles, hiding away, though the top of her hair peeks out.

            Ah, well. He hopes Ingrid won’t scold Sylvain too harshly.


            The next week is a packed schedule of tests, midterms settling in to properly drain students and teachers alike of their energy. Even Manuela has taken to properly covering up, though it is more akin to her wearing a baggy sweater and sleeping at her desk as the class studies their notes minutes before scrambling to take their tests. Seteth has become more lenient as well, granting several students all night access to the library and cafeteria alike.

            Training is even more necessary in the tense period. They swap weapons, practicing different techniques, new warmups. Dimitri is forced to aid in archery for a day, realizing too late just to what extent archers stretch. Claude had shamelessly leaned against him, leg up to his neck, pressed nearly mouth to mouth as he thanked him for his support. The situation was only made worse when the other students had asked for Dimitri to hold them steady during their stretches as well, in the false belief that his strong grip would help them balance. Ashe’s sunny smile, tongue wet at the corner of his lip, as he pulled flush to Dimitri had kept him dizzy for a good minute.

            It is cruel relief when Dimitri is allowed to train with his entire class again, sparring with wooden swords, axes, lances. He tosses his from side to side, practicing with Dedue, then hand-to-hand with Ingrid. Annette trips at a point and slams her axe into Sylvain’s shoulder; laughter rippled through the class when he whined and milked it, leaning against professor. The sight of even Felix chuckling, eyes crinkling with warmth, struck Dimitri.

            Yet, despite their rotations, despite the ferocity with which Felix lands every blow, the tatters of his shirt tearing as practice weapons catch onto the fabric, Dimitri fails to stand across from him even once.

            Dimitri catches Felix at the end, bangs slick to his forehead beaded in sweat. They’re panting, muscles sore, and yet the words croak out of his mouth.

            “Spar with me.” Please.

            Felix growls, straightening, his back turned. Dimitri is acutely aware of the careful eyes on him, Dedue especially, and lets his hands fall to the side. Very well. It would be best to not make a scene, certainly not in front of his closest companions, and he takes a stiff step away.

            “Pick up your weapon, boar king.” Oh. Ingrid makes a huffing sound that vaguely registers as “finally” as Mercedes laughs, tugging away Dedue and Ashe. It is a matter of moments before the training grounds clear, leaves dotting the floor, Dimitri and Felix standing square. Felix tosses his wooden sword from hand to hand.

            “Then, shall we?” The words are hardly out of his mouth before Felix is turning, sword thrust at his face. Dimitri cranes his neck, feet stumbling back; Felix kicks at his shins, a gasp slipping from Dimitri’s mouth just as he bends back. Archery training did some good for his flexibility, for how Felix’s eyes widen at the ease with which Dimitri flips over his hands, catching himself on steady feet.

            “Did I surprise you?” Dimitri laughs. Felix growls, eyes narrowed, as he charges forward again. Dimitri meets his parry this time, lance thrust forward, and when Felix stumbles back Dimitri presses forward. They are certain to shatter the wooden practice tools, though Dimitri would wager that Felix has little care.

            He is more surprised to realize that he shares the same sentiment.

            “Don’t get smug, boar king.” Spat, like poison, Felix’s spit hitting the ground just as his feet push forward, sword aiming at Dimitri’s shoulder. He twists, eyes solidly on Felix’s left hand rising upward, clenched into a fist. A classic feint, so disarmingly simple that Dimitri knows better. He clenches his jaw, spear thrown forward, ducking under Felix’s arm to punch at his side.

            “Hah!” Felix scoffs, angling to miss Dimitri’s hit. His feet made an easy circle on the ground, sword narrowly cutting at Dimitri’s chin. He grunts, a flinch of pain making itself aware, the splatter of blood from his lip. Felix grins, vicious, no doubt feeling the flush of victory in his chest as he steps closer.

            Dimitri grapples with his spear a moment longer, piercing the fabric of Felix’s uniform as he darts away from the blow. His smile is wiped as Dimitri swings the spear a second time, their weapons clashing in the air between them. Here, always, Dimitri looms over, pressure mounting dangerously. Felix growls, low, his hand loosening from the sword a moment before his fist rises, preparing to hurt Dimitri in the stomach.

            It would have worked, perhaps, had Dimitri not planned to do the very same.

            “Gu-hhark?!” Felix shouts, spit flying from his mouth as Dimitri’s fist slams against his stomach. His eyes are wide, rolling upward for just a millisecond, as his feet fly off the ground. Dimitri is there just as he falls, knees buckling, to grab at his arm and force him downward. Felix wheezes, no doubt resisting the urge to curl in pain, his leg coming up to kick at Dimitri. High, flexible, the boot of his foot making a solid impact at Dimitri’s jaw. He grunts, hands loosening, allowing Felix to roll out and punch his shoulder.

            “Hah, nnah, Felix,” Dimitri pants, teeth gritting as pain radiates from fresh bruises. Felix slams another hand down, nearly toppling Dimitri, and his eyes flare with fury.

            “This battle,” Dimitri shouts, “is over!” Felix’s startled yelp is little in comparison to the rush of victory flaring in Dimitri as he launches onto Felix, fist firmly clenched as it punches again at Felix’s stomach. Felix wheezes, eyes wide, though his leg kicks out again. It is easy, so remarkably easy, to elbow sharply at the shin, forcing his legs down with his own. Dimitri lands two more jabs at Felix, his chest, his side, grappling his hands downward. Felix spits, shaking, though he can’t do much but groan as his face is crushed into the ground, matted leaves and dirt sticking to his cheek.

            “Ga-h, hah, hrrr,” Felix hisses, wriggling under Dimitri’s hold. It is of little use, Dimitri a solid weight on his back, elbow pressing against the sensitive meat between his shoulder blades. Felix wrenches his eyes closed, pain coursing.

            “Surrender.” An order, dangerous, promising damnation if failed to comply. Yet, Felix simply growls, legs kicking out, hitting nothing but the air.

            “Go to hell, boar!” It’s anger, fury, weeks turned to months turned to years of boiling confusion turned resentment. Felix snarls, slamming his weight upward against Dimitri, successfully smashing the back of his head against Dimitri’s face. The sound of something snapping does miracles for Felix’s mood, though it does little to cripple the grasp Dimitri.

            “Ha-grahhh!” It immediately plummets again when sharp pain echoes throughout his body. Dimitri hisses, blood leaking from his nose onto his lip, teeth grinding as he pulls sharp at Felix’s hair. Long, blue, knotted with mud and dirt and broken bits of leaves. Pretty. So pretty.

            Dimitri wrenches his hand into Felix’s scalp and pulls at the hair. Felix shouts, something high, shrill. For a moment, his mouth gaping open, gasps shaking his jaw, Dimitri feels the smallest ounce of pity. Then Felix is thrusting his head, trying to tug himself free from the weight pushing him downward, and the pity flees.

            “Surrender,” Dimitri repeats, cold. His hand slams Felix’s wrists against his back, a choke echoing from his friend, as his hand reins Felix’s hair back. Every cough from Felix makes him tremor under Dimitri, and it is this close that Dimitri can properly see the dirt caking his face, the bruise forming on Felix’s chin, the beginnings of tear and snot from being smashed against the ground.

He wants to let Felix go.

He just wants Felix to surrender more.

            “Surrender.” Felix’s head goes straight back into the ground, grinding. Dimitri pants, his wrist shaking as he pulls Felix up a centimeter more, just to hear the slurred groan from his mouth. He drops Felix back into the dirt, watching the leaves wrinkled and break from the force, watching as Felix’s limbs slow, his legs slack under Dimitri. Watching the pretty pale skin of his neck, hair tousled and collar torn, bob with every swallow.

            Dimitri lowers his mouth to the flesh and bites.

            “Nnargh! Boar?” Felix’s shout is a haze to the sudden rush of iron in Dimitri’s mouth. He startles, eyes wide, jerking back. Apologizes form at his tongue, heavy, though the taste of blood, Felix’s blood, stills his jaw.

            Felix kicks at his back, sending Dimitri forward onto Felix’s back. They grunt together, dizzying, winded a moment, as Dimitri’s hands go slack. He raises one, pulling a hiss from Felix, his hair still tangled in Dimitri’s fingers. The sight of his neck craning, red, blooming with teeth marks in the pale skin, makes Dimitri swallow.

            He’s suddenly very aware of the heat pressing against his pants, making itself known.


            This isn’t—this isn’t a game, not anymore. It wasn’t much of one to begin with; certainly anything but fun with the blood staining both their faces, uniform properly ruined, bruises certainly making marks on their bodies. Dimitri releases Felix, stumbling back, mind dizzy as Felix spits at the floor, leaving a red stain on a ruined leaf.

            When Felix turns to him, dirty and sweaty and streaked with blood and spit along his jaw, collar ripped, Dimitri finds himself clenching at his fingers.

            “You are insane.” Felix’s voice is harsh, a heavy scoff, his eyes dangerous as they survey the ruined grounds. Dimitri nods, wiping a hand at his chin and coming away bloody. Right. Felix had cut first blood at his lip, and then again when he smashed against Dimitri’s nose, cracking. He ought to fix it.

            “We should see Manuela,” Dimitri murmurs, quiet. Something akin to shame and resentment swirls in his stomach, riling, uncomfortable. He makes a move to gather himself upward when Felix coughs, loud.

            “You’re going to leave like that?” Oh, yes, well, Dimitri can’t do much about his ruined uniform now. He supposed he could simply return to his dormitory and change before heading to see Manuela, but he has a particular feeling Dedue wouldn’t be pleased if he caught him in the halls injured. He opens his mouth to retort when he registers where Felix’s eyes are at. Ah. Well.

            “This, this, uh.” Humiliation flares hot at Dimitri’s face, hands coming down to grapple with the fabric of his pants. Felix rolls his eyes, heavy, warning. Then he’s up, swinging onto his knees and elbows, making a crawl over to Dimitri.

            “I could feel it, boar,” Felix hisses. He’s still bleeding from ruptured skin at his cheeks, his forehead, slammed against the floor. Guilt claws itself upward in Dimitri’s beating chest, and his mouth falls open just before Felix grabs at it with his fingers, nails digging into his skin. “I could feel it on me. Disgusting.”

            Felix kisses Dimitri as though they are in war, angry, biting, more fury than any form of love. Dimitri cranes his neck back, willing, wanting, as Felix draws a hiss from pressing down at the very cut he inflicted onto Dimitri. Dimitri pants, eyes open, wary, his hand pressing at Felix’s.

            “Wait, wait, Felix, wai—” Dimitri grunts as Felix grabs at his head fully, fingers digging into his scalp, pulling them better flush. Here, pressed thigh to thigh, he can feel Felix against his hip, hard, warm. Heat flushes Dimitri in awareness, realization.

            Some people, it turns out, do enjoy being chased.

            “Shut up.” Felix’s words are hardly more than a scathing breath, hands sliding from Dimitri’s neck downward, drawing angry red lines along his side, his back, straight down his spine. Dimitri shivers, whines, suddenly aware of the awkward working of his jaw, the press of Felix forcing his neck back, the willingness he has to allow Felix to lord over him. He feels—small, perhaps, not so much a heir as much a common boy. Just another student, flushed with childish abandons, hard as rock and straining at his pants.

            “Can I, shall I,” Dimitri’s throat bobs, hands tugging at their pants. He’s never been too terribly patient in bed and it is his downfall now, earning another growl vibrating from Felix’s tongue pressed to his chin. He moans, soft, heavy, and then Felix is swatting away his hands to adjust their trousers himself.

            “Can’t you do anything right?” Felix frowns as Dimitri chuckles, a breathless thing, their belt buckles coming loose. “Don’t answer that.” Felix’s hands pull their pants down to their thighs, the blues and purples of faded bruises mixed with the angry red welts of new ones. Felix’s fingers ghost the scarring, drawing a whimper from Dimitri, the clenching of his shoulders.

            “I’m sorry,” Dimitri whispers. Felix scoffs, tongue clicking against his teeth as he slots their hips together, cocks brushing. Dimitri yelps, a moan caught in his throat, when Felix grasps them with his left hand, the other pulling Dimitri down to properly kiss at him. Every twitch, every callous, every aspect of Felix’s hand is a new sensation that sends shivers down Dimitri’s spine. He pants into Felix’s mouth, feeling remarkably dizzy, hands sliding up to tug at Felix’s hair.

            “Felix,” he whines. Felix grunts, hips thrusting close, leaning onto Dimitri. His hand quickens, angry, desperate, needy, drawing soft mewls and shakes from Dimitri.

            “Felix!” Dimitri says, demands, pleas. He’s not sure, mind hazy, more than anything aware of nothing but the feeling of Felix cupping them together, the look of Felix’s eyes, hard, steel, lovely against the redness otherwise occupying his cheeks. The feeling of Felix’s hair, brittle, matted with mud and blood and bits of leaves, sticking to Dimitri’s hand. Sweat and spit on his face.

            “Pretty.” Felix mocks, and then Dimitri is pulling, harsh, sharp, Felix forward as he smashes their lips together. He’s miscalculated, clearly, their teeth stinging with sudden pain, and yet it’s no more than a mere whisper of the pleasure overwhelming, rocking his hips, making him whine. Dimitri clenches his eyes shut and shouts into Felix’s mouth, hand and hair entangled, cumming against Felix’s stomach.

            His palms are sweaty, grimy, and surely pulling more than a few stray locks of hair when Felix forces them out. Dimitri pants, legs suddenly aware of the painful bruises and cuts he’s sustained in training, and then even more aware that they’ve just done, done, something unreasonable in the training courtyard. In public. For everyone to see.

            “Don’t start,” Felix warns, and Dimitri’s mouth clicks shut. Felix has cum shot onto his uniform, streaking the black and gold trimmings wet, mouth clenched as he wipes at it. There’s little point, his hands equally dirty, perhaps even more so with the dirt and blood and, oh gosh, teeth marks on them. Shame floods Dimitri cold, previous pleasure lost, as he quickly tugs his pants upward.

            “Felix.” His voice is soft, pleading to even his own ears. Dimitri shuffles in place, eyes tracing the forms of the leaves crushed under their scuffle. Could it even be called that? Scuffle, or spar, or, or, something built up to, angry, demanding and clawing at their skins for years past? Is there even a word for that?

            Hatred, perhaps. Dimitri bites his lip, the taste of blood still on his tongue.


            Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Not boar king. Not a scoff, a scorning hiss, a line promising vengeance and years of resentment. Dimitri. Just Dimitri.

            “Dimitri,” Felix repeats, and then there is a hand tugging at sore muscles, fingers pinching at his hair. Dimitri startles upward, his mouth ajar, the sight of Felix’s loose hair spilling over his shoulders downward. Dried blood and spit and cum, and yet, the smallest crease of a smile on his face.

            “Did you call me pretty?” The words spill from Dimitri’s lips without his permission and he snaps his jaw shut, tightening. Felix’s fingers clench at his shoulder, stinging on faded bruises.

            “Well,” Felix coughs, hands sliding to hook under Dimitri’s arm and pulling him onto his feet, stumbling, “we should go to Manuela. As you suggested. Earlier.” Even with his face crooked away, Dimitri can spy the creeping flush at the tops of his ears. He can’t help it—he barks a laugh, shuffling forward, arm around Felix’s shoulder. Relief.

            Felix yelps, shoving Dimitri only to immediately hasten back his hand at the pained wheeze. They wander forward together, shifting from either side, petty curses spilling from Felix when they lean too far and nearly trip into the ground. Dimitri wonders how they will ever make it to Manuela, and Felix roars.

            Dimitri grins, hair flipping into his face, blood and sweat and grime caked into his skin, his uniform, his otherwise pristine blonde hair. His steps make them sway dangerously, prompting scolding, though Felix simply clutches him closer. Arm under arm, flesh pressed close. Their legs move in unison.

            Dimitri laughs, a jingle in the air. Felix’s eyes dart to the floor.


Chapter Text

Alone, empty rooms in an empty apartment. Perhaps he should have stayed at the agency, bothered Reigen to lend him some blankets, food, entertainment. Bold lies for short stories, urban legends for truths, whispers of something hidden under the cracks. At the very least, Reigen would bring him out to ramen, deliver him something to eat.

Teru needs something- more.

“Are you scared?” He jumps, whipping around to see Mob glancing around the apartment. Embarrassing, how empty, how barren, it is. It used to be beautiful, colorful pastels, bright neons, and now it’s bleak greys and empty spaces, filled with nothing but lingering ghosts of regret, resentment, loneliness.

“Are you?” It’s hard, sometimes, to forget that they’re friends. Partners. Something more than enemies, more than acquaintances, even though the words dig under Teru’s skin and drags red lines along his arms, angry dots at his body forming ugly shapes, ugly faces.

Mob looks at his words and sees right through them.

“We don’t have to, Teru.” Friendly, friendly, he knows, he knows. Yet fire still gnaws in his stomach, racing, ravenous, burning up his insides as he wheezes.

“I want to,” he spits, and he does, he does, even as his eyes lower and shame flares furious at his cheeks. Mob’s eyes don’t leave his face, looking, tracing. What does he see? What does he know?

Everything. Everything.

 It’s cold relief that hammers his heart when ice explodes along his limbs, unfeeling, unyielding, pushing him flush against the bed. He grunts, teeth grinding, cheeks hollowing, focusing on the little puffs of air that solidifies at his skin, icy pellets. Try as he might, psychic aura squirming alight around him, he can do little to escape the binds pulling his limbs in, his body close.

A band, physical, small faces printed on a neon yellow back, stuffs into his mouth.

Teru gasps, whines, something, unfamiliar helplessness bursting into his chest. He can’t move, can’t speak, can barely breathe properly with this gag in his mouth, stifling his noises. Mob is there, clearly there, so obviously everywhere with his presence. Loud, overbearing, a monster of a spirit.

Small hands touch his back, and he shivers.

“Teru,” speaking, something, hazing in the fuzz clouding Teru’s brain, colors and noises and smells swirling around him. This, this, feeling of floating, of disappearing, whispering away into nothingness. This, surrendering, resentment, dissolving into Mob. Fading into his aura, wrapped tight around his body. “Teru.”

A hand pulls at his hair and his heart clenches.

 Teru says—something. Something small, frail, remarkably fragile for being one of the strongest espers he knows. He was the strongest, once, and even though he knows it was only months before it feels like a century of solitude, realization, hands and binds covering his mouth and eyes come undone. Then there was Mob, only Mob, always Mob, back remarkably wide for a child Teru’s age. Smiling.

“Teru,” he had said. “won’t you be lonely?”


Darkness slips his eyes shut as intangible forces tug loose his clothes. It’s easier like this, unaware, unfeeling. Just the careful presses of something natural unwinding his shirt, freeing his legs, pulling down his underwear.

He’s hard. It’s ridiculous, embarrassing, shameful—he used to be, to be good at this. He used to sit on other’s backs, send them flying with invisible punches, invisible jabs. He used to smile with vicious victory at their bare behinds, beat red and black and blue. He’s Teru. King, a man worshipped amongst humans, popular by fear and looks alike. The women loved him. The men feared him.

For Teru, they’re one and the same.

Mob’s hand is the one sliding along his bare back, goosebumps coming to light with the ghosting of his fingers. Teru’s eyes slide up to see nothing, hear nothing, and though he knows he’s leaking, should be, must be, he can’t tell. He can’t tell much at all, in this foggy darkness around him. Nothing but Mob’s hand on his back, the other ghosting up his thigh.

“Teru,” Mob’s saying, and his voice unfairly sends shivers to Teru’s core. Mob’s breathing, sighing, something, every vibration of his throat an echo in Teru’s body, a quiver at his dick. His eyes pinch shut, open wide; it doesn’t really matter, not when all he can see, all he can feel, is just the press of Mob against his body, the waver of his voice.

“Teru,” again, please, again, “Teru?” Ritsu would be so mad to discover what his brother’s up to. The thought makes Teru’s throat bob. His hands shake, move, maybe, and then he’s on his side, legs sprayed wide, jaw shaking. His bandanna must be getting wet, useless as a gag tucked into his jaw. Mob’s hands draw upward at his cock and he sighs, dreamy, floating. On a planet outside Earth.

Unable to fight, unable to scream, unable to do much besides register Mob flush to him, hand gripping and sliding along his cock. He’s—not great at this, rhythm off, hands clenched a little too hard, angle weird. But it’s Mob, little Mob, big Kageyama, the one who knocked Teru off his pedestal and sent him into orbit nude, the one who flashed his angry eyes and saved the world three times over, the one who smiled his way and made Teru his friend.




  Teru gasps, screams, shrieks, chilling roars of energy coursing their way along his spine. He wants—he needs, something, something, something. To be worshipped, to be praised, to be sung to the high heavens. To be broken, to be shattered, to be cast across the floor without a second glance. The hands on his cock slide, slippery with precum, nail scratching at the wrong places, thumb only making half a curl. But it’s Mob.

 Mob, who raises his legs around Teru’s, who’s head bumps against his back. Mob, who presses his lips at the raised goosebumps, who’s hands are unsteady and small, who doesn’t know when to start and when to stop. Mob, who could ruin this whole world, who could take Teru and cast him down from the heavens. Mob, who can immobilize him like this, render him absolutely helpless. Mob, who does.

Mob, who kisses his back and whispers his name.


Teru cums like that, in dark, in light, in a kaleidoscope of colors and rhythms. He says, something, murmurs, something, begs, something. Warmth explodes inside his chest, forcing out the black flakes from his eyes, triangular trails of memories that shatter and tear. Summer afternoon bricks smash at the ground, a shout echoing in the air, hands on him. It smells like Mob. It sounds like Mob. It feels like Mob.

It must be Mob, lips against his cheek, hands up his chest.

 Teru comes to, sans gag, voice remarkably wet despite the screaming he was bound to do. His limbs feel—refreshed, loose, easy, as though he hadn’t been bound tight by forces powerful enough to crumple men in its grasp. Try as he might, his ears fail to pick up the sound of footsteps, his eyes stray far and see nothing but the usual. Greys, and blacks, and whites.

Alone. Alone.

A hand grasps at his clenched fingers, pulling them open for the hand to slip inside, fingers entwined. Teru blinks, eyes sliding over. Mob sits at his side, eyes drooping, hand in hand.



They sleep together, just like that.

Chapter Text

            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.

Chapter Text

            The Fodlan winter festival makes for merry streets alight with candles and ornaments, green and gold in the shape of delicate wire strands twisted and tied together hanging over store fronts. Brick walls line the entrance to the shopping bazaar, where a statue of a dragon is made of painted scales with well wishes and prayers written in gold. A box of plain scales is set aside at the feet of the dragon for passing children to inscribe their messages upon, which will then be hung along the entrance in a magnificent garland.

            Cheery music plays in every street and corner, a jingling of bells accompanying the laughter of families as they eat and drink together, merchants advertising a discount on their usual fares in the dawn of the season. The war is over, the kingdom rebuilt, and now is the decadent time of celebration well deserved. No more bloodshed, no more conflict.

            Just peace and joy.

            “What are you thinking about?” Byleth’s voice is soft in the peace of their chambers. Claude shrugs, turning away from the window overseeing the budding festivities, hands idly flipping through worn pages.

            “Just thinking,” Claude murmurs. Byleth snorts, a roll of her eyes as she walks over, placing her hand onto his shoulder. Pressed this close, he can hear her voice catch at the sight of the twinkling lights in the distance. “We’ve never combined winter festivities before. How should we properly represent all the kingdoms in our union?” Even the ones that no longer exist. The weight of Duscar weighs heavy in Claude’s mind as he snaps his book shut, the once shiny words printed on the cover dull from years of disuse.

            “We can start by gifting scarves to all our Almyran friends.” Claude pushes his bottom lip out in a pout at the words—it’s not his fault that he’s sensitive to the cold. Byleth ruffles his hair, eyes still on the bazaar. “It’s going to take time, Claude. Let’s focus on getting this ball done first.”

            “What, are we still planning that?” His voice dies to a whisper as Byleth scratches along his cheek. Claude’s eyes flutter shut, neck bared, as his breathing evens under her hands. Byleth has always known best how to deal with him, and he allows her to tug him against her chest.

            “I am. You’ve been awfully good at shrinking your duties.” Byleth scolds, though her finger only pinches at his cheek before returning to running along his chest. As effective a charmer as he is, Claude’s found that the older he gets, the less patient he is with the wrongs of the world, and the result of it is that he’s become a force to be reckoned with during councils. When even Seteth has taken to warning him about stress during discussions, Claude knows that he needs to take a step back.

            Byleth clearly agrees. There’s a reason she hasn’t forced Claude to lead the ball planning, despite him having much more experience with the matters. Organizing the market festival has made him much happier, certainly less stressed, and she’s pleased as long as he is.

            That, and fucking him after a long day with the excuse of attending more meetings than he is a fantastic stress reliever.

            “Come on,” Byleth prods, pulling him to his feet. Claude eyes her, amusement dancing in his eyes as she leads him into a circle. They sway in place, steps neatly timed, marching to an unknown sound. “We have a festival to plan.”


            Byleth finds that the saying “time goes fast when you’re having fun” happens to apply both during enjoyment… as well as stress.

            “This is ridiculous,” she hisses, pawning through the various papers sprawled onto the table. Every minute, hour, day that passes is another tick closer to the festivities that must be launched, and if their citizens were excited before, they are absolutely raving now. False rumors have circulated around the kingdom of the king and queen visiting tiny villages to deliver gifts of gold, diamonds, even entire plots of land. The increasingly ridiculous demands had made her laugh at first, but Seteth pulling her aside to read a letter written by a child thanking her for an “unlimited feast” made her swallow and pull back.

            Byleth sighs as she runs her hand through her loose bangs. There’s still so much to do in terms of planning and organizing the ball meant to be a union of cultures, and though it’s technically Claude in charge of the design she’s the one attending most of the meetings. It’s not something she can fault him for, certainly not when she was the one who told him that his presence wasn’t necessary in the planning process, but weeks in have exhaustion sagging at her shoulders, her walks between meetings her only reprieve.

            It’s a wonderful sight to see Claude in the meeting room, alone, shuffling through papers with his eyebrows furrowed, humming to himself.

            “Oh,” she murmurs, struck. Claude raises his head to glance over to her, a smile playing at his lips. Byleth slips the door shut behind her, careful to check that Seteth is nowhere near.

            “Heard you were getting stressed out,” Claude comments, as though he hadn’t been witness to her everyday exhaustion. She’s been so tired that her mind has gone blank as soon as wrapped in blankets, more than once leaving Claude alone while he bathed. Guilt wore at her mind until he reassured her that it was only expected, with the looming ball nipping at them both. “Figured I could be of use. You know, like a stress reliever.”

            Byleth doesn’t miss the quirk of his brows, the crook of his mouth as he rolls the words off his tongue. Well. It certainly is true that they haven’t had time to properly unwind at nights, and Byleth won’t deny that she’s missed watching him wince with a sore bottom. As though hearing her thoughts, Claude rolls his eyes, tapping the tabletop playfully.

            “Unfortunately for you, I’m quite busy being helpful. You’ll just have to distract me.” The playfulness is surprising, but it earns him a grin. Well, if he’s up for it, then she certainly has no issue playing along. She creeps along the table, sliding by him to find a familiar assortment of objects hidden under her chair.

            “Well.” Byleth coughs, amusement present. Claude fails to stifle his own laughter, shoulders shaking even as he continues to scribble away at the stack of papers on his desk.

            Her hands play with his hair, his chin, scratching along his neck. His eyes remain glued to the paper even as his face follows her motions, easily guided into her hands, sighing softly. They trace the shell of his ear, pinch at his collar bones, dig into his shoulders. Claude straightens his back and parses through two more pages.

            “Hmm, I wonder what strange goddess must be whispering at me?” Claude’s mock complaint earns him a roll of eyes, Byleth crouching to better press her lips against his cheek. He hums, eye darting to her and back, hands fast to draw circles around an important segment of celebrations. Byleth unbuttons the beginnings of his top, pulling it open to better bare his chest. When her teeth pierce his flesh he fails to muffle his moan, one hand slapping at his mouth.

            “W-what a strange goddess, indeed,” he coughs. Byleth licks at the mark she’s left on his chest, pressing her hands against him, rolling his nipple between her fingers. His shoulders jerk, stifling another gasp into his hand, though the other continues making shaky notes. Her hands force the shirt open another two buttons, scratching at his skin, sucking tight pink circles. Claude’s back arches, coughing into his hand, cheeks warming lovingly.

            Even so, his other hand continues to work at the papers. She’d be impressed at his self-control, if not for the straining of his pants fabric poking at her hand. Byleth hums, brushing her hand against the lump, hearing him hiss as she draws small circles.

            “I really should let you be,” Byleth concedes, slipping her fingers off. Claude leans forward in an attempt to follow her warmth, a whine spilling from his lips. Immediately his jaw clicks shut, flustered, his eyes darting away. Adorable.

            Byleth grasps her robe, pulling aside to survey the assortment at her chair. She can hear Claude adjusting his clothes behind her, no doubt glancing over at her. The choking sound from him as her pants pool at her ankles is nothing but confirmation of her suspicions—so much for being focused. She hums playfully, shifting her hips from either side, sighing at the press of the strap inside her. It’s one of their long, thinner pairs, often neglected behind the fuller, thicker ones that better full him up. The fact that it’s here at all is sign enough that Claude was hoping that she’d pick it.

            Well, she’d indulge him just this once.

            “Oh, I so hope my little deer is working hard.” Byleth turns with a grin, robe swishing along her legs. Claude’s eyes are on the papers in a moment, his back scrunched, leg bobbing. He looks, for a moment, like the troubled schoolboy she once knew him as, impatient, curious, unable to just sit still.

            Byleth drags her feet along the floor as she walks over, smile widening as Claude draws his shoulders up, clearly resisting the urge to look over at her. She slides her fingers into his hair, drawing his jaw upward and pressing the strap against his cheek.

            He swallows. Cute.  

            “Keep working,” she instructs. Claude’s eyes return to the papers, elbows up, making a point of reading the text even as she grips his jaw open, poking the head against his lips. It’s laughably easy to slip into his jaw, not the slightest resistance as he dips his head back, papers rustling high in the air, her hands pulling at his hair. He moans around the strap, tongue poking out.

            Byleth slips the strap in and out, just a loose easy rhythm that wets his lips and cheek as she rubs against them, saliva spilling onto his chin. She hums, hand stroking at his chest, pinching at the bare skin, watching stray drops of spit slide downward. They are quiet but the shuffle of papers in his hand, too fast to be properly read, and the wet noise of her in his mouth.

            When she flicks his nipple, Claude moans, eyes darting to her face. He’s properly pink now, jaw loose, easy, and she pushes deeper into his throat. His eyes clench for a moment, tight, throat bobbing as the strap properly snaps against his mouth. She slips out of him, just to watch his mouth follow her, mewling softly.

            “Teach… come on,” he whines. Byleth smirks, tapping on the tabletop and pulling him forward. Claude blinks, his eyes darting from her face to her hands, before recognition alights. It’s easy enough for him to climb onto the table, shirt dangling uselessly from his waist and his elbows, falling onto his back over the papers and pens. His head dangles, upside down, jaw open and tongue out. “Hurry up, already.”

            “Hmm,” Byleth hums, though her feet walk over to his side. Her hand pinches at his cheeks. “I don’t know. You should be working.”

            “I am working. I’m working on entertainment,” Claude scoffs. Byleth barks a laugh, quirking a brow, her hands slipping further down to scratch at his skin. Claude shivers, papers crinkling below him, his tongue licking at his lips. “Come on, fuck my mouth. Please?”

            “Good boy,” Byleth purrs. Claude moans, ears flushed, always so happy to hear her praise. She grips his jaw, prying his mouth properly open, and slips the strap in. The slide of it, heavy on his tongue, makes him drool, gravity pulling it up his face. His eyes twist shut, throat throbbing, when the strap hits at the back of his mouth.

            Byleth stills, her hands digging red crescents into his skin. Claude breaths, in, out, even, before gagging when Byleth suddenly snaps her hips forward. His arms tremor at his sides, grasping at nothing, the sound of Byleth’s strap hitting him drowned out by the choking gasps forced out of his mouth. Drool and mucus cling to the strap as she wrenches his head further back, down, an awkward angle forcing him to breathe through his nose.

            Claude thrusts against the table, his dick straining at his pants. Byleth must notice, laughing, hitting him twice as hard and listening to him yelp. His hands claw at the table, nails squeaky on the wood, only to tense when a sudden pressure pushes down against his throat. It bobs, tight, Byleth’s hands wrapped around him so.

            “How cute,” Byleth appraises, watching Claude choke and moan, “I can feel myself in you.” He coughs, gags, tears from lack of air beginning to form at his eyes. She pushes one hand down at his throat, the other grasping his shoulder and bending him against the table at an awkward angle. It’s uncomfortable, the edge of the table cutting into his skin, the repeated thrusts of the strap cutting off his breath, the pinching at his throat.

            “Mna—ga-haah,” Claude gags, tongue lolling useless as Byleth uses him. The rumble of her laughter makes the toy tingle in his throat, prying another moan from him. When she stills, grunting, hips pressed flush to his face and thighs tight at his cheek, the rush of knowing that he’s been good for her makes him pant.

            Byleth rolls her hips, moaning softly from her high. She takes a step back, watching the string of drool dangle between Claude’s lips and the dildo, his eyes shut from spit and mucus and tears mixed on his cheeks. His throat bobs as he coughs, hands pressed to his side, dick straining against his pants. It isn’t until he’s finished coughing, taking in large gulps of air, that his hand wipes at his eyes, opening blearily to take her in.

            “G-good?” Byleth hums, a grin cracking. His voice is but a croak, so obviously abused at her hands.

            “I should be asking you that,” she gestures to the strap, thoroughly coated in his saliva. Claude’s eyes avert, blush deepening. “If you wanted to be throat-fucked, you could have asked me.”

            “Where’s the fun in that?” Even as he speaks, he winces. His hands clench at his sides, hips up in the air, winking at her. Truly a natural conversationalist.

            “Come here,” Byleth relents. Claude’s smile is worth a thousand suns, the speed with which he climbs off the table remarkably similar to his military days. His feet wobble when he does hit the ground, eyes blinking hazily, mouth agape.

            “Oh,” he murmurs, “whoops. Blood to the head.”

            “Which one?” That earns her a laugh. It’s easy enough to pull him into her lap, pulling his pants down to his thighs. “No underwear, hmm? Naughty.” He really couldn’t be any more obvious if he tried. Byleth wraps her hands around his cock, giving gentle broad strokes. He’s already red, fully hard, dripping wet with pre-cum. After a proper throat fuck, she doesn’t expect him to last.

            “F-for you? Always,” Claude stutters, his hips shaking as she tugs at his dick. He moans, bowing over her, arms around her shoulders as he rocks into her hands. His face is sticky against her neck, jaw loose and easy from the strap, and he squirms when her nail presses at the sensitive slit of his head. His thighs tighten, pulse, jerking above her thighs.

            “Nn, hah, not g-going to,” Claude pants, hands tightening on her skin as his hips grow sloppy, dick bobbing in her hands. She drags her nails along the veins, tracing small patterns and earning a broken shout. He tenses, warble of a scream in his throat, as cum shoots out into her hands. Byleth grasps at his chin, forcing his gasps into her mouth, biting at his gums as he shivers against her. It isn’t until he’s pushing just slightly at her body, shaking from overstimulation under her fingers, that she relents, pulling off to wipe her cum across his thighs.

            They’re silent for a passing moment, simply content to lay in each other’s arms, warm and hazy from proper time together. It really has been too long since they’ve been able to relax, and Byleth sighs as she presses Claude closer to her, warmth radiating off them. It isn’t until he shivers that she crooks a brow, rumble of laughter in her throat.

            “Come on,” she whispers, dragging a finger down his neck, “let’s get you into a bath before Seteth catches us.”

            They escape, though the soiled papers at the head of the table to be discovered two hours later is proof enough of their activities. When Seteth simply gestures to them, face pink and frown set firmly into his face, Byleth only shrugs.

            Stress relief, she’ll tell him.


            For the weeks of careful planning, organization, and false rumors, the winter festive ball is no more than three hours of speaking to snooty nobles and dodging conversations to speak to kids. As far as Claude’s concerned, it’s more of a relief for the event to be over so they can properly celebrate the festivities: the week-long celebration really begins tonight, when the dragon is said to be illuminated with the wishes of all the citizens in the world, weighing what good their soul has and delivering them presents equivalent to their morals. Claude’s always liked the idea in practice—in reality, it’s often been the richest of nobles who received the most, even though he’s found them to hold the worst morals.

            Well, he doesn’t plan on that happening this year, for sure.

            “The flowers here are collected from the south of Brigid,” he explains, poking at the delicate frosted edges of the purple tips. Technically, these flowers are wild weeds that grow at the base of fallen trees, cut down into stumps by old colonists. They’re seen now as a symbol of perseverance, stubbornness even in the eye of conquering evil. The ones here are white at the edges, a strong hue of purple cut by silver dust along its petals.

            “Brigid? Why not Fodlanese flora? Surely we have the budget to order some proper flowers for the ball?” Claude scoffs, rolling his eyes. He’s grown used to the discriminatory mannerisms of nobles from youth, and yet, he finds himself ever exhausted from their behavior even now. Trust uppity bastards to think that importing flowers from another nation would somehow by a stain on their reputation.

            “We do have Glouchester roses aplenty,” Claude sighs, gesturing at the decadent wall of flowers at the centerpiece of the ball. Annette had an idea of building an entire dragon made up of flowers from around the world, and it had come out splendidly, the most effortless union of cultures Claude’s ever seen. “But we decided to allocate the budget to accommodate for all nations. It’s only proper, isn’t it?”

            The noble at hand sputters. Claude leaves him without another word, making no secret of his disdain. His silver tongue and charming mannerisms have become an infamous rumor amongst most of the nobles, who flock to him in an attempt to sway him their way. Little have they realized that he’s not just being nice; he’s figuring out just how little it’ll take to remove them from power.

            Honestly. At the winter ball, no less. If he rolls his eyes any harder, they’d pop straight out of his head.

            “I thought I told you to play nice.” The hand caressing his cheek brings a smile to his face. Claude turns, lips pursed, pressing a kiss to the cheek of his beloved. Byleth’s own smile is soft, just a twitch of her lips, her fingers cascading down to cup at his waist. “Don’t go bringing me trouble.”

            “Who, me? I’d never.” He winks to emphasize his point. Byleth sends him a flat look, though he can practically feel the amusement radiating off her. They walk to the floral dragon on display together, breath coming out in shallow puffs that crystalize in the air.

            Freedom seekers from Brigid loop into white dandelions from Fodlan, and a series of pastel savior candies from Almyra. It was Sylvain’s fondness for weeds that convinced Claude to commission the centerpiece to be made of them—the annoying buggers that never give up, even when they’re cut down and down again. At the tip of the dragon is a single blue and red splattered rose, a hybrid borne of Duscur seeds. It’s Claude’s particular favorite in the entire ensemble. He thinks his friends would have liked the display, years and years ago.

            It’s a small mercy that they could experience one last winter ball together, Byleth and them three. Claude drags his eyes away from the flower to Byleth’s face, startled blinking when he registers that she’s been staring at him. Flustered, morose even, he looks away.

            Her hand squeezes at his arm. He releases a shuddering breath.

            “Shall we enjoy the festivities?” The lights outside are gorgeous, gold and silver and copper pieces strung together and hanging low from every stall in the bazaar. Children laugh as they chase each other, satchels in hand holding no doubt the first of many presents to be delivered this season. Several store owners are handing out samples for waiting families, and Claude is pleased to see a proper mix of people, of all ages, color, gender. All dressed in their best, smiling, joyful.

            “Look,” Byleth whispers against his ear. Her finger points to an Almyran storefront, a woman decked in strands above strands of delicate chains and colorful jewels. Claude whistles, eyes wide, as he takes in the multitude of gems hanging off her form. She catches their eyes, gasping.

            “Your majesties! Please, come in, oh,” she ducks, sheepish, “that is, if you have time.”

            “Time for a talented merchant? Of course,” Claude teases. The storekeeper flushes, eyes darting away. Claude startles when a hand pinches at his behind, Byleth raising an eyebrow at him. His hands draw up in surrender, stepping into the store. “Hey, I’m telling the truth! These are beautiful.”

            “They are,” Byleth relents, sweeping in and ignoring the sparkling assortment entirely for the three hung axes at the store register. The storekeeper rushes behind her, fast to explain that they aren’t for sale. Claude laughs, ducking away, eyes glancing over the jewelry on display.

            Bracelets, and rings, and earrings of all shapes and forms. He’s particularly pleased to see that it’s not just Almyran garments at hand. The gold and silver hair pieces with spiky hooks for the ears are a staple of Fodlan history: called “dragon ears”, they were first made under Seiros, worn by male warriors to show the blessing of the goddess. There’s also several beaded necklaces in the manner of Brigid, delicate hand-painted beads that form sceneries of the sun, the moon, flowers blooming in spring. A single black diamond, smoky, from Duscur sits at the center of a tray of rings, and Claude hums as he ghosts over it.

            The Dagda anklets are particularly gorgeous, glass pieces connected by shiny ribbon. Claude finds himself particularly attached to a pair of two that come with a satin thigh band, cascading ribbons down the leg to the anklet. He’s never seen them in real life, and he stills just to admire.

            It’s the floral waistband in the next display that forces him silent, eyes wide.

            “Oh,” he hears, soft, and he turns to see the shopkeeper smiling softly. “I’m sorry, that’s not for sale. It’s my own.” Her hand touches her stomach, and now, properly attentive to her form rather than the variety of glittery jewels on her body, he can see the beginnings of a bulge at her waist.

            “Congratulations,” slips from him, light as air. Byleth mirrors his word, finally distracted from the weapons on the wall. Claude grins when she launches back into her conversation with the shopkeeper, eyes returning to the floral band. He traces the delicate leaves, dipped in resin to protect them from eroding away. Beautiful.

            He should write to Judith. And Nader, and Cyril, and his parents. His friends, and their families, and invite them all to a grand feast. It’s the winter festival, after all.


            For the fun of the first four days of festivities, and a successful planning of a feast for the last day with all their friends, Claude and Byleth find themselves suddenly busy with a pouring in of requests from people all around the nations asking for their appearance for festival events. While some are wishes signed off by the people in the town, others are entitled letters demanding their presence. Those get thrown straight into the trash.

            To make matters worse, some idiot out there decided to get upset about the false rumors circulating, writing tens of hundreds of upset letters speaking of how Claude and Byleth have failed as rulers of their lands. The words would be much more hurtful if they weren’t about how the idiot in question somehow deserves his weight in gold and jewels, as well as enough land to replace a country. It’s a pain just to get rid of his letters at the door.

            Even after that, there’s the looming discussions of crop rotations at hand. Apparently several nobles in the west of Fodlan had decided that they were going to control who was allowed to plant and harvest what, and then tax the merchants beyond reasonable means. The result was that people were fearful of going hungry in the coming winter seasons, something Claude and Byleth had no plans of helping occur. They’ve invited the nobles to come to speak with them about the issue, or, rather, to have Byleth cut them down and remove their titles without mercy.

            “This is ridiculous,” Claude groans, his hands locking above his head. “We shouldn’t have to work! It’s the winter festival!”

            “That’s the path of royalty,” Byleth reminds, though she can’t help but agree. Her legs are cold after sitting still for so long, parsing through letter and letter again. The one good thing is the plethora of presents that have arrived with their mail: some kind souls have decided to send them presents in reflection of the season. Most have been attire or hair pieces, though a few had contained weapons. Those in particular made her smile, flipping the small engraved dagger from finger to finger.

            “You love that way too much,” Claude laughs. She grins, letting it flip in the air before catching it again. He whistles, shoving another letter into the discard pile.

            “It’s a good package opener,” Byleth corrects. Case in point, she finds another brown parcel, tied with sparkly ribbon, under a few letters. Brushing them off, she cuts open the bow, then the wrapping, to unfold a golden clip. It’s glossy, a dull jewel set into it in the shape of an eye, and she narrows her eyes as she angles it to catch the light. It looks awfully familiar.

            “Oh! That’s mine!” Claude’s fingers snap it out of her hands, and in a moment, he has it tucked away into his blouson. Byleth raises an eyebrow. He’s chuckling, eyes pointedly averted from her, hands quick to dive back into the pile of letters with new enthusiasm.

            “Let’s get back to the task at hand.” Right. She narrows her eyes, nodding slowly. Right.

            She’d almost forgotten. The most irritating issue of the winter festival—Claude Von Riegan himself. He’d been unnaturally quiet, dazed, for the first day of the festival, and then a ball of excitable energy the rest. Even as busy as they have been with the pressing issues at hand, he’s still quick to flit around topic to topic, never quite meeting her eyes, awfully careful to go to bed late enough that they can’t actually do anything.

            It’s frustrating, to be kept so obviously in the dark. Even more so during the holiday season. Byleth is half tempted to grab him by the scruff of his chin and haul him onto the table, properly fuck him just to get it out there.

            “Byleth?” His voice is quiet, just a murmur, as he folds another letter and places it into the discard pile. “You okay?” His hair falls against his cheek as he speaks, eyes pinched, guilt almost palpable at his hands. He knows that she knows that he’s been acting suspicious, and between the energetic bursts have been periods of quiet, him pressed against her back, simply breathing with her. Just them, in peace.

            “Sure,” she murmurs. She’ll let him keep his secrets.

            Byleth has a feeling she’ll find out soon anyway.


            Byleth realizes, in hindsight, that she had never actually received a promise from Claude to attend the discussion to the end. Yes, he had implied it, and yes, she and Seteth alike had simply raised a wary brow at the words. Yet, she had the smallest of hopes that he would actually exercise said control that she knows he has—at the very least, has presented, on the grounds of war.

            She cannot blame him entirely for fleeing the situation, even if it left her accountable. The situation being the angry shouting match that had occurred across the table when speaking about crop merchant territories, and the fine line between farmland that stretches across nations. Byleth’s face was unfortunately cursed to be forever stuck in a firm grimace, eyes narrow as their so-called guests squabbled and fought with blunt words. Claude had left the meeting early, sighting an important duty he had to attend to.

            There was no such duty, a fact Byleth and Seteth alike knew. Yet, they let him go anyway.

            It’s better this way, she’s come to realize, given Claude’s natural aversion to conflict. She’d even prefer to grant him relief from the squabbling, if not for the fact that he spent half the meeting with his hand on her thigh, and, while speaking, made obvious the spilling of his wardrobe, the lines of angry scars she had left on him a week ago still raw along his skin. What kind mercy she had reserved for him is gone now, only fury and desire lapping at her heels, arm swift to swing open their bedchamber’s door.

            “Claude, what do you think—”

            The door slams shut behind her as quickly as it had swung open. Byleth pauses, taking in a careful breath, nails skirting the frame behind her.

            The flimsiest excuse for bra and panties, made exclusively of white lace and ribbon, stitched together at the edges, are a lovely contrast on his skin. Thigh highs, made of significantly more sturdy fabric, are just the slightest bit too tight, leaving red indents on his leg. It’s the jewelry that makes her breath stutter to a stop—gold chains dotted with pearls and gemstones of various colors, a belt hanging off his waist, a cuff on his thigh over his left band, making delicate lines on his skin. A stack of three loops hang over his neck, heavy, inscribed with Almyran words and dotted with a rainbow of stones, glittering as he turns his face away from her.

            “What do I think about what?” Oh. Byleth feels her fury leave her at once, the flush of red against his skin enticing. He must have felt cheeky while dressing, particularly aware of his seductive mannerisms, but standing in the room with his arms picking at the crisscross of ribbon and lace at his hips makes him shy, fragile. There’s two gold chains crosses along his hair, hanging over the bandanna he’s usually adorned for war, skinny braid familiar. When his eyes dart up to meet her face, mouth pressed in a wobbly smile, she is suddenly aware of the warmth curdling in her lower stomach.

            “Uh, Byleth?” Her legs march forward without much thought, arms scooping at Claude’s legs. He yelps, arms quick to wrap around her neck, as she hauls him into her arms, descending onto the bed. Her lips meet his, harsh, demanding, forcing his lips to part with ease as her tongue snakes inside to press at his, hands roaming along his shoulders.

            “Byleth, Byl,” his word is lost in a moan, soft, her fingers scratching at his shoulder blades, pinching the ribbon along his back. “Wait, wait!” Byleth’s teeth bite at his lip, sucking on the raw sore, relishing in the arch of his back, the twist of his neck as he shivers. Her legs tighten around him, grinding against his dick, earning her a loud whine and thrust against her body. “Byleth, Byleth!”

            “What?” Her fingers clench, sliding along his skin. She doesn’t want to stop, not when he’s laid himself out so pretty, soft, eager to react at every drag of her fingers against his skin, ever warbling sigh with the press of her lips against his. Byleth kisses at his cheek, teeth grazing his skin, feeling the warmth radiating from him. Adorable.

            She wants to ravage him.

            “I just, um, jeez,” Claude’s breath leaves him in a hazy chuckle, wary, his head turned to duck into the pillow behind him. The clinging of his earrings, colorful jewels, braided gold, direct her eyes to the tied bandanna over. It’s been nicely tied into a bow, a present for her to open.

            “Do you like it?” Cute, cute, unbearably cute. Byleth grasps at his chin and tugs him upward into another hungry kiss, warmth and need bubbling. He gasps, arms shaky as they wrap around her and pull them flush, dick hardening against his panties. Pretty, so darn luscious, a candy she wants to lick and bob in her mouth, melting under her tongue.

            “What do you think?” The mirth in her voice is unmistakable, and he grins up at her. She hums when he kisses her again, soft chaste meetings of their lips, her hands trickling down to pull at the straps of the white lace adorning his form. Temptation pulls at her to rip it, ravage his decorated form, leave him panting and breathless. Yet, as she plays with the length of the ribbon, fingers scratching at his nipples, she finds that she doesn’t want to break the synergy.

            Especially so with the script engraved into his necklaces, flung to either side as she pries him closer to pinch and lick at his chest.

            “I don’t, nng, get any compliments? S-stingy.” Claude’s taunt is broken by the moans warbling in his throat, bobbing as he takes in shaky breaths. Byleth licks at the length of his throat, earning her another groan, the display of his head reared back, nape displayed. Submissive, sweet, and she bites at the bare skin, carving her brand into him.

            The waistband jingles as he shifts under her movements, a gasp making it tremble against his skin. Her fingers dip down to play with it, admiring the shiny jewels, pressing a finger around and against his navel. Claude pants, legs twitching open, the stockings translucent at the width of his thighs.

            “You’re adorable,” Byleth praises. Claude whines against her, dick throbbing, a pretty blush deepening along his shoulders. “You’re so cute, dressed up like this. A present for me to unwrap.” Her fingers snap at the waistband, scratching at his skin bare beneath it, a drag of her teeth at his collar bones. “I should have known this was why you were so busy.”

            “Yeah?” He breaths, pressing down to kiss at her skin. Byleth hums, a vibration along his throat, nipping at his reddened skin. “What were you thinking?”

            “Of your schemes? A prank, most likely.” He huffs a laugh, legs spread as she pushes them wide beneath her. Byleth trails her fingers downward, hooking onto the lacy excuse of an undergarment. He’s smeared wet precum against the center of the fabric and she grinds her palm against him just to hear him moan, warbling.

            “W-well, hah, did I get, nng, you?” Claude’s grin is broken by the soft whines and pants of her hands against him, finally freeing him from the panties. Byleth twists her hands at his length, earning her a loud shout, his legs twisting against the sheets. “B-Byleth, c-come on! Don’t tease me.”

            “How can I not?” She scoffs, hands slipping off. His hips thrust after her, needy, and his eyes squeeze shut as he gasps, soft moans catching in his throat. She’s tempted to leave him alone, force him to work himself open for her pleasure and then abandon him midway, just so he can sit through the endless taunting that she’d had to endure today.

            But then again, he’s dressed so nicely for her. Every shudder of his body is decorated with the delicate tinkling of jewels and chains bouncing against each other, the curl of his hair lovely with gold sparkling along his scalp, the layers of earrings and necklaces sprayed across his skin. The lace, the stockings, the waist band made of glass and gold and silver and jewels, plaster and feathers alike, that tempt her to hook her hands under it and pull.

            “Precious,” she breathes. His eyes dart away, and even so, there’s the pull of a smile at his lips. Cute. So fucking cute.

            She wants to fuck him senseless.

            “Teach?” Claude murmurs. Byleth cups his face in her hands, pulling him upward to press a kiss at his mouth. He falls against the sheets without her support, eyes glassy as she turns to their closet. Behind the frame, he can hardly track her movements, though he does nothing but spread his thighs wider apart, shuffling with the sound of jingling from his body.

            “I’m going to fuck you.” Oh, how lovely he looks, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. She secures the strap against her, pressed comfortably inside, a vial of oil in her hands. The bed creaks under her knees, and with it comes the another rattling of jewels.

            “You truly sound like a winter ornament,” she chuckles. Claude pouts, mouth pursed, though he slips into a whine as she pries his legs upward, poking at his hole. He’s wet, leaking from precum, though she notes that it’s not the only thing smeared onto the fabric. He’s prepared himself for her.

            Claude wanted her to take him like this, dressed as her present. She grins, all teeth.

            “T-teach, nng,” he moans as she pressed two fingers within him. He’s wet, warm, loose under her fingers, so clearly ready. She crooks and pumps them into him, watching his eyes flutter, his throat bob with every shaky breath as his hips twitch. His hands grasp the sheets between them, nearly hard enough to rip, as he pants.

            “You wanted this, didn’t you?” She rasps, a third finger twisting inside him. His spin arches, pretty, the sight of the chains bouncing against his skin joyful. “Wanted me inside you? Fucking you?” His jaw tightens, a shout squeezed out, clenching around her fingers. Clearly she’s hit a good spot, and she targets it specifically, pumping inside him. “Didn’t you want this?”

            “Yes!” Claude yells, legs tense around her hips. He is hers, so clearly, so obviously, by goddess, hers to use and hers to love. Every pant slipping from his lips is a breathless yelp, every word a warbling pleasured whine. “Yes, yes, please, fucking yes!”

            “Good boy,” Byleth pants, her hands a stinging pressure at his thighs, fingers digging red lines into his skin. She smears the oil against him, lining him close, head pressing at his entrance. Claude sighs, head dizzy, eyes locked on her entrance. One hand comes down to play with the strand of jewels around his waist, the other, pulling at the loops at his neck.

            They both groan when she sinks fully into him, his head pressed back against the sheets, so pretty with every rise and fall of his chest, every tinkling of his jewels. Her hand comes up to grasp his wrist and pull him flush to her chest, head lolling at the movement, before her fingers come down to grasp at his ass.

            When she lifts him in the air, his legs scrambling to close around her waist, he shouts.

            “Hah! Hah, ah, nn-ah!” Claude gasps, pupils blown wide. Every shiver, every step, jostles Byleth deeper within him, the room spinning with how hot his face is, how warm his stomach, dick sliding between them. He does sound like a fucking winter ornament, hips shaking and chains jingling, as Byleth grips him and thrusts him upward.

            Claude feels like a doll, a toy, just a being for Byleth to fuck up against and into, forging unimaginably deep into him, filling him up so wonderfully. He’s drooling, crying perhaps, sniffling from the pure shock of pleasure flooding his every nerve, shaking and twitching against her. His legs pulse with every thrust, tight around her waist, clenching down on her strap as she fucks him. He can hardly even make out the sound of his attire anymore, not when his voice is a hoarse scream with every movement.

            His face buries against Byleth when he cums, shouting wordlessly into her skin. She grunts, bouncing his hips against hers, the wet slap of their flesh dizzying warm. Claude cums against her, himself, wetting the flimsy lace and streaking the jewels with his semen. Byleth grunts, continuing to thrust into him, until her own arms clench tight at his ass, toppling over back onto the bed as climax takes her.

            They’re panting, noiseless, just the sound of heavy breaths in the air as they lay against each other. Byleth lifts her face first, sighing, the feeling of sweat cooling against her skin sticky. She jostles back, pulling the strap from Claude, a wet moan wrenched from his throat at the sensation.

            She should place it back into the closet, to be properly cleaned. Fuck it. Byleth lets it slip through her fingers, falling onto the floor instead. For now, her focus is on Claude, eyes wearily peeking up at her.

            Him, and the jewels crossing his chest, glossy still.

            “You look nice.” He huffs a laugh at that, sore, wincing at the noise. He shifts upwards onto his elbow, scooting back to make proper room for her to sit beside. The gems jingle and shift when her weight shifts on the bed.

            “Thanks,” he coughs, “you look nice too.” Byleth chuckles, raising a brow as she gestures to her nude self, cum streaks on her stomach and all. Claude grins. “I like you naked.”

            “Thanks,” she repeats in turn. “I like you naked too.” Her hand plays with the gold buckle on his thigh, shifting it up and down, rotating it to eye the chain closure.

            “What, you don’t like this? I thought you said I was cute.” That, and other things. Claude paws at her hands teasingly, though there’s an edge to his smile. His shoulders are drawn high, stretching the lace to its very limits.

            “You are. Precious.” Byleth corrects. The smile on his face falls into something more genuine, pleased, and he falls back onto the bed with a thump. She slides her fingers upward to play with the chain, twisting it in her fingers, parsing the multitude of materials. Gems of all colors and cuts, gold, silver, glass and feathers. A leave encased in something hard, followed by two painted beads that resemble eyes.

            “It’s,” Claude swallows. Byleth looks upward, watching his throat bob. He’s nervous, clearly, a flush at his cheeks. She grasps his hand and pulls him forward, kissing at his finger, the ring on his hand. The only one she recognizes to be the one she gifted him on his entire body.

            “It’s a fertility band. I know.” The sight of Claude’s jaw dropping, unmasked shock on his face, makes her laugh. She rubs her thumb over the stone on the engagement band she gave him, and reminiscences on when the desire to be something more had taken hold of her. Years, and years, ago, when they had just met, even. Claude had been a dazzling light from the very beginning.

            “For strong children,” Byleth points at the widest band hanging from his neck, gold with words engraved and a single green gem set at the center, “for healthy children,” the second band, same form, but a red gem, “and for ownership. Though, really, shouldn’t I have given that to you?” The smallest band, tight around his neck, made of a variety of shining stones. Claude’s face is entirely red at this point, jaw still slack.

            “Wha-what, how, I, what?” Claude finally breaks, hands twitching as he grasps at air. “When did—I never, huh? Wait, wait, okay,” he huffs, falling back to cover his face with both hands, groaning, “Nader. Judith. No, definitely Judith. It was Judith, wasn’t it?”

            “Nope.” It’s a joy to daze him so obviously for once. Claude narrows his eyes from behind his fingers, mouth pinched. Byleth ducks down to kiss at him, hearing him sigh, relenting to her lips.

            “Who, then?” Claude frowns, hands running along her arms. Byleth allows it, playing with his hair, one of her hands sliding down to tickle at the band.

            “The jeweler, back on winter festival eve.” His brows shoot upward, and Byleth kisses at them, smoothing them under her fingers. “You were staring so much at it. I had to ask.”

            “You could have told me it was tradition to wear this during the holidays,” her finger crooks at the chain as she speaks, “I think people would have been happy to see it, wouldn’t they?” A true symbol of unification between nations, between leaders. Union in love.

            Claude’s voice is small when he speaks.

            “You don’t mind?” Byleth hums, combing her hands back into his hair, kissing at his nose. His eyes flutter under her movements, content.

            “Why should I? You should wear it at the feast,” she answers. He hums, mouth twitching into a soft smile, genuine to the extent that she knows only she has the right to see. When she presses her lips against him, he sighs into her mouth, hands tugging her flush.

            “Yeah,” Claude murmurs, “Yeah, maybe I will.”

            Byleth returns his smile in kind. She’s certain he’ll truly look like a king uniting his people, of all backgrounds, of all hopes.

            Her star, glittering in the sky.

Chapter Text

            There is no denying the cruelty of war when fighting in one. The countless deaths of thousands of innocents weigh down every step, watching burning crops flicker in the distance as an attempt from one army to army to let some poor fools starve. No faction has a wealth of resources, none a true chance at success. It would be a fool’s errand to expect anything but sorrow as the result of a war. Yet.

“Will you join me against the empire?”

            Dimitri’s voice is but a rumble, his eyes surveying the fallen around them. Bloodied bodies of the empire, the alliance, his own people lay scattered on the trampled door, akin to the toys he had once seen as a child. His stretches out his arm to the side, blocking Byleth’s approaching form, nodding down at their fallen friend.

            Claude huffs, mouth set in a familiar twist despite the slow rise of his chest, a thin gash cut along his jaw. His eyes make a slow, deliberate sweep of the battlegrounds, chewing at nothing, before huffing, falling back against his thighs. There’s two cuts through his pants, his blouson sufficiently torn, hair slipping onto his face. It’s with an easy hand that he brushes it away, glancing upward at Byleth.

            “Yeah,” his voice is but a hoarse whisper, cut down in the ways of battle, “yeah, okay. But, on a few conditions.” Oh? Dimitri raises an eyebrow, glancing over to Byleth’s amused face. Trust Claude to have a trick up his sleeve, even when nearly chased out of the country.

            “One: Just me. Hilda, Lysithea, everyone else? They go home. All of them.”

            “Acceptable,” Dimitri concedes. They don’t have a remarkably quantity of supplies to begin with, and though he would love to have either of their might on his side, he has a feeling Claude would refuse to budge on this condition. He always had an obvious fondness for his house, even back in the beginnings of their days at Garreg Mach.

            “Two: You have to answer my questions truthfully. I’m not kidding on this one, Dimitri,” Claude chuckles, mocking. His hand brushes the head of his wyvern, a lovely creature up close when it’s not tearing enemies to shred. Dimitri had only a few chances to spy Claude’s personal guardian himself, and every time, even now, its gaze had returned to him bloody.

            “Of course. Byleth can assist wherever I cannot,” Dimitri assures. Byleth nods, hooking the Sword of the Creator at their side.

            “Of course Teach can,” Claude’s grin is crooked as he rises, patting at the dirt and mud sticky on his clothes. “Three, Dimitri. I’m being a hundred percent serious on this one.”

            “We don’t kill unless we have to. I mean it. One unnecessary death and I’m gone.”

            Ah. Right.

            He had almost forgotten. It has only been… what? A week, a month, not even that much, since Rodrigue had senselessly died. It had been truly the definition of unnecessary—it was Dimitri whom the dagger was aimed for, not his allies, nor his friends. Though Claude had not been there, though he had not seen Dimitri realize the extent of the pain he was forcing his friends to endure, he had still trusted Dimitri to come. Hoped that he would take his hand.

            Trust that Dimitri does not deserve.

            “Deal,” he murmurs. Claude nods, though his eyes are lidded, his gaze stuck on the scene behind them. Quiet now, free of the coughing, the crying, the screaming of war, though the bloodied remains of people torn apart by hand and weapon and wyvern scatter along the scene. His eyes float back up to Dimitri, slow.

            “Do you trust me?” Truthfully.

            “I do.” Byleth’s hand grasps at his own. Claude blinks, flitting from face to face, hand gripping at his bow. He could kill them, probably, even wounded and winded from days of battle. There is little doubt in Dimitri’s mind that Claude is fully capable of a truly devastating poison that could melt their skin right from their bones.

            He wouldn’t. Dimitri trusts him not to.

            “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Claude stands, then turns, angling his legs over his wyvern. Dimitri sighs, though he can’t find himself particularly surprised. It was a big much, asking his former foe in battle to fight with him, much less against the onslaught that is the Empire—and their former friend at the head. Claude’s never been one for violence, always opting for clever, peaceful options. It’s not a surprise that he’d rather be somewhere else.

            It is a surprise when Claude’s hand extends, palm at Dimitri’s face.

            “Nice to meet you, partner.” Then, before Dimitri can grasp at his wrist, he’s floating, flying, drifting into the air. His wyvern bats its wings, sparkling, beautiful, and for a moment Dimitri can see how Claude would be king. Cast in bloodied, torn clothing, and yet, a regal grin pulling at his face, hair curled at his face, hand outstretched.

            They can be kings, together, fighting this unholy war.


            Trust, it turns out, is a little harder to grasp than a spear, a bow, the throat of one’s enemy.

            Or one’s friend, grappling with Felix in the dirt, weapons abandoned as they pant. Byleth claps their hands besides them, signaling the end of the sparring match. Felix grunts, kicking out at Dimitri’s stomach and rolling away, coughing as his hand grips at his throat. Dimitri pants, rubbing at the variety of bruises undoubtedly preparing to bloom from Felix’s skillful counters, particularly the jabbing at his side. He’ll likely have a pattern of black and blue for a while.

            “That was good. Felix, your speed has improved. Dimitri,” his breath catches, as it always does, waiting for Byleth’s assessment, “good job.”

            “Thank you, Professor!” Simple words that he would have dismissed days ago now pull a smile from his lips, a happy fluttering in his chest. Dimitri stands, nodding at Byleth, taking awkward strides off the match ground where Ingrid and Sylvain are now stretching, preparing to tackle each other. They will no doubt be a terrifying matchup, mostly for how furious Ingrid can become when facing him on any field. Dimitri would pray for Sylvain, if it weren’t in naught.

            It’s Claude’s slow clapping, hidden away in the shadows of the trees, books and scrolls and blank papers spread by his legs, that pulls Dimitri close.

            “What do you think?” Dimitri rumbles, groaning as he sits. His side burns, hissing along his skin, and he rubs a hand at it.

            “Of you getting your ass kicked? It was great.” Claude’s chuckle is but a flitter in the air, carried by the breeze as his eyes trail Dimitri’s form. “Shouldn’t you find Mercedes? I’m sure she won’t take too long with Felix.”

            “I’m surprised you remember her. Did you talk during the academy?” It had been a pleasant surprise to not have to reintroduce Claude to the former members of Blue Lions. Claude had seamlessly pointing at each person, stated their name, their talents, their positions, and, perhaps most important of all, their weaknesses. His flippant address of Felix was the inspiration of today’s sparring.

            Perhaps it’s a good thing Sylvain and Ingrid are sparring. If it were her and Felix, Dimitri isn’t sure they’d leave the match until one wound up dead, and that unnecessary death would certainly have Claude disappear. Dimitri would be down at minimum two allies. Friends.

            He hopes, in some part, that Claude could think of him as such. Perhaps years in the future.

            “Not really. It’s not so hard to remember people, though,” Claude makes a sweeping gesture to the display of texts at his feet, picking up a worn cover and flipping through the pages. “What else am I supposed to do? Call her Healer A?”

            “No, no, please.” Mercedes would likely murder Claude for that. Dimitri swallows, shaking his head. Enough with the opening talk.

            “Claude, I’ve been thinking about this since our battle. Please, answer me honestly.” As truthfully bound as Dimitri himself, he wants Claude to address him the same. At the very least, just this one question.

            “You’re right,” Claude sighs, tossing the book between his hands. “You’ve guessed correctly, your highness. I am indeed single.”

            “I wanted—wait, what?” Dimitri squawks, stuttering away as Claude laughs, rolling his papers and books together at the bend of his arm. His feet bounce on the dirt as he, for just a single moment, looms over Dimitri.

            “Just in case you wanted to know. Hey, Teach, got some schemes for you!” Claude spins on his feet, waving at Byleth. They wave back before returning to the angry shout of Ingrid elbowing Sylvain in the jaw, her other hand pinching at his elbow.

            Then he is across the yard, glittering gold and shiny, as though he had been here all along. He boos playfully when Sylvain gets the upper hand, and cheers as Ingrid grasps his calves and slams him back into the dirt. Byleth rolls their eyes either way, appraising Claude’s messy scrawls.

            Dimitri sits under the shadow of the tree until Felix grabs at his arm, pulling, Mercedes waiting.


            They sleep together.

            It’s not a surprise. No one is so eager to snuggle up with Claude, despite his dashing looks and charming words. They faced each other down in battle just months before, Claude’s arrows tipping dirt and wyvern leveling buildings. Petunia, Dimitri’s learned, paws at the backyard and coos when Claude feeds her.

            “You aren’t afraid to leave her out here? Won’t someone attack her?” Ashe had asked, curious, concerned. Claude had laughed.

            “I’m more afraid for the poor soul who though they’d stand a chance.” That had successfully scared Ashe and Annette alike into staying a solid distance away from the wyvern, though Dimitri could have sworn Dedue tip-toeing near at least once.

            As it is, Byleth is the first to volunteer to lay with their new ally. Which is fine, of course, completely and utterly acceptable, sans the sudden thrumming within Dimitri.

            “Wait! You can—you can sleep with me.” What was more startling than offering his bed was Claude’s sudden silence, eyes locked onto Dimitri. His friends had sputtered and teased and groaned, Sylvain making crude gestures with his hand while Ingrid and Felix alike had shouted, even Dedue, who had been otherwise quiet, had shook his head.

            Claude had said yes, and they lay, now, in bed.

            Claude is warm at his side, arms pressed against each other. They don’t have much to spare, so they must share the blanket, though Dimitri had forced the pillow against Claude’s head. Even so, their feet stick out, half of Dimitri’s arm dangling off the bed, his and Claude’s hair entangled in the narrow space between them. Shoulder to shoulder, silent.

            Perhaps he should have relented and allowed Claude to rest with Byleth after all. Dimitri squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head despite no one available to see him. No, no. He wanted this. It is for the best that he and Claude lay together—as powerful as Claude is, Dimitri doubts he could take him down so soundlessly, effortlessly in bed.


            Claude is, after all, a man of many talents. Many schemes. It wouldn’t surprise Dimitri entirely if he had something capable of killing him, crest and all. After all, Failnaught is awfully large, powerful, and this close in quarters it isn’t impossible to imagine Claude hammering his head in with it.

            Perhaps a poison. A dagger dipped in something beautiful, scentless, tasteless. He could have slipped it into their meals, into Dimitri’s meal. They would all die, soundless, peaceful, in their bed. It would only be Dimitri, his wandering mind, awake to experience the slow fading of his heart, the contractions of his muscles as they struggle against the tantalizing pull of death. It would be just him, alone with his assassin, shoulder to shoulder.

            “If you’re going to have a panic attack I’m going to call Teach.”


            “You’re still awake?” Dimitri hisses, low. Claude’s eyes are still pressed close, though there are now the beginnings of a grimace pulling at his lips, the jostling of the bed as his shoulder shrugs.

            “Maybe you woke me up.” That is, entirely a possibility. Dimitri angles himself to better glance at Claude. They have no curtains, dead weight, and the result is the moonlight pours into the room, illuminating the curves of Claude’s face, the barest press of his brows together, the parting of his lips. His eyes, open now, glisten as he sighs.

            “I’m not going to kill you. You aren’t going to kill me. Go to bed, Dimitri.” His name rolls off Claude’s tongue with startlingly familiarity. How long has it been since they’ve spent time together, alone, in their room? How long has it been since Claude had pulled Dimitri flush, laughing, joking, always a wide smile and twinkling eyes, elusive, illustrious? Human, so obviously human, yet with an otherworldly beauty as their hands met.

            Claude’s hand smacks his face. Dimitri grunts, turning, though the tinkering of Claude’s laughter, soft, pulls a smile on his face. He pushes Claude back, aiming for a gentle shove, only to stop short at the pull of his muscles. He groans, curling, hand rubbing at his bruised sides. Felix really had done a number on him.

            “See that? Should have gone straight to Mercedes.” Claude’s lecture is entirely unnecessary, yet, Dimitri cannot quell the sudden blooming of warmth in his chest.

            “I’m glad you care.” Truthful. Claude quiets, lips pressed, his eyes flickering from Dimitri to the sky overcast. He sighs, turning away, shoulders drawn high. One hand lingers on Dimitri’s wrist, just a moment.

            “Go to bed, Dimitri.” The conversation ends there, Dimitri’s eyes sliding shut, breathing evening out. The last thing he registers before the cold of sleep sinks into him is the brush of Claude’s hair against his shoulder, the lightest press of something warm at his chest.


            They move in the dawn, folding away their supplies, a crawling pace as they chatter and eat, shoving spoonfuls of mashed potato into their mouth. Claude appraises their supplies with a quirked brow, occasionally ducking to check with Byleth, scribbling something into the small book tucked away into his blouson. At some point he and Dedue meet to discuss gardening, or crops, and though Dimitri cannot fathom what planting a field will result in when they never stay in an area longer than a week, Dedue seems sufficiently pleased with the conversation.

            They stumble upon a scuffle between the Empire and a rogue group of bandits. Byleth leads the charge, yelling, as their former students scuffle behind. Dimitri raises his spear and plunges it into the side of a bandit, blood splattering his hands, his cloak. Another two men jump at him, preparing to take him down in one tackle. They scream when he snaps one against the ground with ease, rounding on the other and squeezing tight at their head until it crumbles.

            It’s instinct. It’s experience. It’s years and years and years of fighting, struggling, marching on fallen bodies of friend and foe and innocents, stained so cleanly with blood. It isn’t until he has a troop of the Empire, red garments overlaying their silver armor, that he sees Claude hiding amongst the trees. Armed, though not an arrow notched. Frozen, though alive, eyes steady as they track Dimitri.

            Unnecessary deaths.

            It’s been, perhaps, not much more than a month after Rodrigue.

            Dimitri drops the man onto the floor, though it is too late. He had already shattered the man’s shoulder with ease, snapped his sword in two, spear plunged into his stomach. This enemy will die, painfully, acid spilling out to boil and eat at his body, until he will be just another forgotten man in this endless conflict.

            “Boar!” Dimitri’s head snaps up as another man sends a fireball spinning at him. He dodges, grunting, spinning the spear in his hand.

            “Get out of my way!” He shouts, smashing the end of Areadbhar into the mage. This is war. This is a battle, a stage of bloodshed, and Dimitri refuses to allow any more of his troops to die on the field than necessary. He refuses to allow himself that mercy, not here.

            Not at the hands of a woman he cannot see, eyes hidden behind a mask.

            Eventually, he too will fall. That is the truth of the world, the turnings of time, the calling of death that laps at his ankles with every draw of his spear, every movement of his army. But he has a dedication, a goal, a meaning well worth forging forth his life for. It is only fair.

            “That’s enough.” Byleth’s voice cuts through the chaos, dwindling, as they snap their sword against the ground. Silence descends, careful, creeping, the few remaining troops of the Empire hastening back as the last of the bandits are cut away. Mercedes clutches Annette close, ducking behind the professor, and it is here that Dimitri can see the bloom of red at Annette’s side.

            “Annette!” He snaps, rushing forward. The Empire startles, raising their weapons a second time, only to be slammed back by a round of warning arrows from Ashe and a mighty roar from Dedue, arms swung. A man holding a twisted dagger attempts to swing it into Dimitri, only to be stopped short by his snarl, spear smashing into his face, coming away bloody.

            “That’s enough!” Byleth repeats, and the silence that descends this time is lasting, the last of their enemies wiped. Dimitri pants, wiping at the blood streaked onto his face, his armor, running to Annette. Felix makes it before him, ducking down to grasp at Annette’s shaking form.

            “Annette! Annette!” They choir, Sylvain and Dedue coming up below. Ingrid flies over, Ashe casting wary glances over her shoulder, as Mercedes flashes them a soft smile.

            “She’s fine. Just needs a rest.” Byleth is the first to pull back, allowing Felix to pull Annette into a hug. Dimitri nods, pulling back after assessing the red on his hands. Best not to dirty Annette with it, lest he make her panic. Ingrid drops to her knees, grasping at Annette’s hand, murmuring a soft prayer.

            Claude lies in the trees. From here, his leg swinging over the branch, Dimitri can hardly make out the shape of his wyvern, his bow, the narrowing of his eyes. He raises a hand.

            “Claude,” Byleth calls, walking past Dimitri. Claude drops to his feet, bow slung across his back, book in hand. His eyes lock on Byleth, mouth already moving, gesturing. Some plan, some scheme, clearly, likely based off analysis. Real world experimentation.

            It bothers Dimitri, in a peculiar way. He waves again.

            Claude’s eyes flicker his way. He smiles, waving back, before returning to his conversation with Professor. Annette coughs, causing panic to ripple through Felix and Ingrid alike, pulling Dimitri back to the conversation.

            He misses Claude pointing at him, a hard set to his mouth.


            Peace is waning.

            Daylight grows shorter, the creeping cold of winter approaching with every step. They don’t have blankets to double up on, instead opting to sleep in pairs following Dimitri’s example. Sylvain and Felix, Annette and Mercedes, Dedue and Ashe, Ingrid and Professor. It’s normal to stick close to your partner, eyes wary, ears perched, expecting noise and receiving silence.

            Ashe is the first to catch a cold. They joke about it, poor timing, ill will, until Byleth coughs, a hand muffling the noise. Then Dedue, iron immune system and all, sniffles. Dimitri is the fourth, sneezing into his hand.

            What would they do, if the Empire were to stumble upon them now?

            Dimitri’s thoughts are forcibly shelved by the wet touch of a cold rag against his head. He shivers, flushing hot and cool, tremors shaking his spine with every breath. He had tried to spar regardless, claiming health, only to be swiftly beaten by Felix, who had loudly and angrily instructed that he be confined to bed.

            It would be an awful shame for him to die, here, cold and alone in the midst of the woods, not even a battle. He would rather an eventful death, an impactful one. Perhaps death by the impalement of a thousand spears.

            It’s war.

            “I thought I said to stop thinking so much, or I’d knock you out myself.” Dimitri’s eyes glaze as they slide over to his companion. Claude wrings out another towel against a small bowl of water, no doubt one of their few reserves, and Dimitri can make out a colorful assortment of cloth behind him in various shapes and forms. They look awfully odd, funny, and he laughs.

            “Oh, goddess, you better not be hallucinating again.” Hallucinating? Funny. Dimitri tries for a wry chuckle only to erupt into searing pain, a burst of coughs forced from his chest. His hands wrench in the blanket, feet kicking out, as tendrils of something squeeze tight at his lungs, press harsh at his heart. A sudden pressure grasps at his jaw and he snaps, teeth gnashing.

            “Out of my way! I need—I need,” her head. Edelgard. White hair and purple eyes, pale skin marred with faded scars.

            Dimitri shudders. Her. She. They were friends once. Family, even. Him and her. Dimitri and El. She had to go, and he had gifted her a dagger. Now, they are in war.

            Is Edelgard an unnecessary death?

            “Is she?” The slap of a pressure against his chest tightens, harsh, and he gasps. Firm fingers, strong despite their delicate grip, force his jaw open and he gags as a splash of water hits his tongue. Dry, so dry. He must have sweat it all out. Was that water his?

            “Don’t worry about it.” Dimitri shivers, whines, feeling awfully pathetic. There’s a rumble pressed against his shoulder, wet from the splash, and then smooth movement of fingers against his scalp, pressing his hair back. Familiar. Familiar in an old way, years and years ago. He cannot recall last getting sick, likely a result of his crest.

            Funny how that works. The thing that Edelgard despises the most and yet it keeps him, her, their companions—alive. He wonders, in the end, if it will be her who ends his life.

            New voices break through the haze, high and soft. Mercedes, Ingrid. Annette. One of them, surely, has to be, unless they’ve also fallen ill. They’re in a sore spot then, if Mercedes is out. A hand, colder than the ones before, embraces his cheek. He sighs, turning to it, chasing its cool before it departs.

            “He needs more—”

            “… not sure if…”

            “Dedue? … Syl… Sylvain…”

            “Teach?” Oh. Dimitri’s eyes flutter open as he turns to his left. Professor is here, their eyes scanning a booklet of texts, Mercedes and Ingrid share soft words between them. Ingrid nods, departing with something shiny in her hand. Claude rumbles something, soft, a hand pressing Dimitri back against the pillow.

            “Go back to sleep.” Unreasonable. Dimitri growls, butting his head against the hand. He may not be so clever as Edelgard nor Claude, nor would he consider himself so capable of inspiration, but he is nothing if not stubborn, determined, wanting for a better future for Fodlan. It is he who will inherit the name of King, he who will find peace for this warn torn nation, bloodied history and peoples.

            He refuses to die in a deserted clearing along the bodies of his friends, as though they are nothing but discarded bones and intestines from a hunt.

            “He’ll probably sleep if you watch over him instead, teach.” The hand withdraws from his head, a pinch at his hair. Dimitri whines, pulling at the blanket. No. No. Come back. He wants—he wants—he wants

            “I think he wants you.” Yes.

            There’s a shuffling of something. Papers, perhaps, texts, or an exchange of bowls, water spilling at the edge. It must be that, the final one, for Claude pinches at his jaw again and forces chapped lips open. It hurts, he hurts, raw and cold and warm and tired. Water spills into his mouth, overflowing, freezing. He gags, coughs, thrown back into the spiking pain that grapples with his lungs.

            When Dimitri next wrenches open his eyes, night has fallen. The stars are so bright, here, in the midst of the forest, sparkling through cracks in the tree leaves. His eyes feel glassy, puffy, as they dance from light to light. Beautiful. Beautiful.

            As lovely as the figure on his side.

            “Water?” Dimitri shakes his head. Claude huffs, rising to his elbows to grasp the bowl regardless. A hand tugs gently at his hair, propping his head upward, his jaw falling open as though second nature. He is parched, surely, for the relief that swills in his body at the cool relief of liquid filling his body, wetting his tongue, cleansing his system. He must have gone through at least a fifth of their water supply alone, and he worries how much more Dedue may have gone through. It is a good thing, at least, that Sylvain had not fallen ill.

            The water ends before his thirst is properly quenched. They truly must be running low. Dimitri quakes, tucking the blanket flush to his skin, shaking his head. Has Mercedes drank? Ingrid? Professor?


            “What?” Claude whispers. Oh. Right. Dimitri forgets that Claude is here, looming overhead, the shadow of his mouth shifting. It’s funny. He laughs.

            “Please don’t be hallucinating,” Claude groans. Dimitri shakes his head, feeling. Silly. Funny. This fever must be getting to his head.

            “Are all Almyrans gorgeous?”


            Funny. One would think that the dazzling night sky would devour Dimitri, his companions, his army. Instead, it’s Claude, instead, emerald eyes twinkling, skin radiant as the stars against the dark, ethereal. Real, in an odd sort of way, the way that shadows moving in the corner of one’s eye, the running of water along tree stumps, would be.

            Real, cold, against Dimitri’s sweating face.

            “Would you kill me?”

            “I’m getting teach.” It’s cold fury, panic, need, that wrenches Dimitri’s hand from under his blanket, latching onto Claude. He’s tumbling out, half his body shivering against the onslaught of cold air sweeping his skin. Freezing, he’s freezing, chilled to the bone, though it is only sprawled out that he notes that Claude is colder still, tucked in his ripped blouson and puffy pants, not a blanket to be seen.

            This blanket is not big enough for them both, yet Dimitri grapples it over their shoulders. Pressed close, Claude’s breath is visible as it crystallizes in the narrow space between them. He’s—quiet. Contemplative. Scheming.

            If Dimitri isn’t careful, Claude may just plunge a dagger into his heart and twist. The only question is whether he wants such a thing.

            “Let me go.” Quiet, not a struggle. Just Claude, his hands, freezing tips tracing patterns along Dimitri’s skin. Gentle prying fingers that pull free of his grasp, startling loose the wet patch on his head. “Let me get you a new one. You’re almost past the fever.”

            Soft. Quiet. Sweet. If it were just a month before, Dimitri may have shoved right past him for Edelgard, screaming, deaf. It was—he was. No excuses. Even as his mind may spin and his tongue dry against the roof of his mouth. No excuses.

            “Kill me.” Please. Dimitri rasps. Claude’s fingers press against his eyelids, tipping them downward. He shakes his head, messy tangles flipping about. No. No. He wants Claude to answer him.

            “Go to bed.” Fatigue, familiar. He’s seen this before. Hasn’t he? Dimitri wavers, head bobbing. He thinks—he thinks.

            “Please kill me.” There’s a press of something warm, soft, just the slightest bit dry skin chafing. It’s familiar. It’s so familiar.

            “Go back to sleep.”

            He blacks out.


            The fever breaks in the dawn. Byleth leads the other fevered members down to a shallow river, running cold and rapid against their shins, nearly pulling Ashe under the current if not for Dedue’s fast reaction. Washed bowls line the shore, as well as their old clothing heaped into a basket meant for washing. Sylvain is the designated washer for the day, scrubbing harsh at their sweat and dirt stained cloths.

            Claude and Felix join them with breakfast, boiled potatoes and carrots with salted cabbage. They eat in relative silence until Sylvain drops his bowl into the rapids, swept fast away out of the corner of their eyes. It is Dedue who breaks first, a rumbling laughter, a spark igniting. They’re speaking, laughing, Felix begrudgingly splitting his bowl with Sylvain, Dimitri offering his own. At a point Byleth collects their bowls, mentioning a desire to fish for their lunches. They’ve nowhere to go.

            Old friends, new ones, playing in the water. Sylvain pulls Dimitri and Ashe into the water, kicking up waves, and then Felix is tackling him with a yell. Dedue steadies Dimitri, careful, gentle, his shaking frame a remark of laughter, not cold. He’s missed this.

            Senseless fun. His eyes drift to the side, to Claude, simply wetting his feet on the shore. He walks over, every step a drag against the rapids. It must be the aftereffect of the fever, of bedridden hours, for he slips, eyes widening when the cold splash of water approaches his face.

            A hand tugs harsh at his arm, shouting.

            “Hey! Jeez, be careful.” There’s a twist to his lips, upset, as Claude pulls Dimitri upward. Dedue is right behind, grasping his other arm. Claude relents, hands letting slip, arms raised to his head as he steps back.

            “Come join us,” Dimitri rasps. Demands. His head must be foggy, fuzzy, the rush of warmth to his cheeks a result of illness. It must be. Claude raises a brow, flickering between he and Dedue.

            “Maybe later. Don’t want to scare Sylvain with my good looks.” Claude’s wink is simply a parting as he turns, taking careful steps back to the shore. Oh. His pants are wet, part of his shirt soaked through. The water only reaches their shins.

            “Your highness, are you alright?” Dedue. Right. Dimitri nods, stepping back, cradling his arm. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.

            Sylvain yelps when Felix kicks at his shin, forcing him to fall to his feet. The rapids blow him over with ease, earning loud laughter from Ashe, and even Dedue and Dimitri have to chuckle at the sight. Byleth waves from the shoreline, Ingrid perched at their side. The girls must be waiting to bathe.

            “I should head back to camp.” He leaves first, soaking his hair into a worn rag, clothes cold against his skin. Dedue tries to follow, even Byleth’s eyes tracking, though Dimitri shakes them both off. They care for him, both of them, but Dimitri has no need for guardians. He is only going to consult Claude on their behavior, their strategies. His schemes, come to life, in Dimitri’s hands.

            Seeing Claude squashes the worming of his heart. He is here, dry, pulling their sheets to lay them out to dry. Dimitri waves, smiling, their eyes catching. Claude smiles back, sauntering forward, pulling Dimitri close.

            “Do you remember last night?” Claude’s words are a breath against his skin, warm, harsh against the stark cold of the air, crystalizing. Dimitri shivers, eyes faltering. Last night? His fingers squeeze, tight. Last night. Last night.

            Claude’s face against the stars.

            “Last night? I-I don’t think I can recall.” Claude frowns, rolling his sleeves upward, pinching at his skin, a litter of scars at the surface. His feet take a step back, then another, shaking his head.

            “I thought you were going to be truthful.” His tone is saccharine sweetness, beautifully artificial. There’s a pout pulling at his lips, eyes just the slightest slant. Dimitri knows he’s flushed, red, always so easy to such words. It’s always been that way. He’s always been this way. “What happened to our deal? You want me to leave that bad?”


            “Just you.” Dimitri pleads, hands grasping Claude’s wrists. Claude blinks, faltering, his feet sliding along the ground. “I-I just remember you. Your face. Your eyes. In the stars. Against the stars. Please stay.”

            Claude hums, fingers warm as they fold against Dimitri’s fingers. Their fingers entwine, nails scratching at flaking skin. Dimitri watches the rise and fall of Claude’s chest, the slow slide of his eyes from their hands to his own. Asking. Wanting.

            “Truth,” Claude appraises, and then he’s gone, slipped from Dimitri’s hand, the sound of their returning friends from the rapids. No. Not their friends. Dimitri’s. His.

            Claude is a single strand of gold in their sea of blue, sparkling.

            Dimitri must hold onto him.


            “You really don’t remember?”

            “No? Did I do anything embarrassing?”

            “Embarrassing? Nah. Well… maybe your snoring. Is that why Felix calls you boar?”


            Claude’s companionship turns out to be an incredibly important decision, since it is him and Byleth together who work out entryways into the impregnable fortress, Fort Merceus. Certainly, there are no easy paths into the center; their previous plan was simply to storm the area with the best of their abilities. Yet, Claude and Byleth had discovered a number of paths into the building, most of which have crumbled from previous events throughout history, but one in particular that should work, allowing them to sneak past several guards.

            It’s enough for a scheme that allows them to capture Casper early on, despite his angry struggling. Lindhart is much easier to subdue, largely because he takes one glance at Claude tagging along behind Dimitri to sigh, raising his hands.

            (“I won’t be dragged along too, will I?”

            “I have no idea. You think I planned to be here?”)

            Byleth leads the charge, directing Dedue to grapple away Caspar and Lindhart, Ingrid, Felix and Sylvain leading the charge. Ashe follows behind, swift, Annette yelling as she charges, hammer raised. Mercedes steadies herself behind Byleth, arms ready. Dimitri nods to her, opposing their route, swinging Areadbhar upwards.

            “Hate me if you must,” he whispers. Words that disappear into verdant wind, blown into pieces that scatter over the masked faces of unknown enemies, troops of a corrupt Empire long needing reformation. His eyes track onto Death Knight, the man’s form stiff, helmet turned towards professor. Mercedes.

            This is not his battle.

            But this is his war.

            “Keep your eyes out!” Dimitri warns. There are a number of defensive armored areas, manned by Empire units, and he would rather knock them out than allow them to harm any of his friends. He charges forward, grunting as a sword nearly side sweeps at his head, ducking and swinging Areadbhar into the side of the Empire grunt. He swivels on his ankle, a wide sweep of his spear, eyes narrowed.

            Caspar’s frantic shouting is muffled behind the whistle of arrows flying free, the startling warmth of magic set alive. Dimitri casts a bare glance at his behind, the sight of the Empire captives lingering behind, Caspar yelling, Lindhart sighing as he waves his hands, another projection of magic set at their boundary, shielding them from desperate attacks. Claude lingers behind them, silent, eyes sharp. They glitter even now, vivid among the flying red, solid even without his bow slung over his shoulders, not an arrow to be seen.

            “Hey, hey, your highness! Don’t get distracted, now!” Sylvain’s grin is unwarranted on a battlefield soaked in blood, two wide red splashes marking his armor. He soars forward with two quick steps, plunging the head of his lance into the body of an enemy mage, their spell set on Dimitri fizzing out from lifeless hands. Dimitri yelps, eyes wide, as a shadow of hulking armor rushes behind Sylvain, gauntlets raised.

            “You’re the distracted one!” Felix and Ingrid mirror, yelling as they gut the armored fellow, shattering the metals and spilling flesh and blood onto the brick floors. “Goddess, be careful,” Ingrid scolds, her pegasus rearing back, “Keep your eyes open! I don’t want to waste my time watching you.”

            “Do not worry.” Dedue’s voice is barely a rumble, quiet, precise as he stands to full height at a captured tower, crumped bodies at his feet. “I will watch for his highness.”

            “I don’t need any eyes on me. Remember your stations!” Dimitri commands, hissing as a fireball comes close to nicking his arm, the scalding heat threatening to lick up his flesh. He spins his spear in place, narrowed eyes, yelling as he charges forward. Areadbhar makes a pretty sight of the corpse that was once an enemy unit.

            It is Byleth who leads them forward, back, around again. Sylvain is called back with Ingrid to provide better defense to Ashe and Mercedes, arrows and spells flying forward to pierce their enemies. In the frontlines is Dimitri, Felix, Dedue, striking fast and hard with vicious determination, blood and flesh and organs making art on stained grounds. Annette lingers behind them, her arms clutching fast at her hammer. It is vicious justice, righteousness, clearing the path for her. For Mercedes, standing tall, solemn, with every small step bringing her closer to him.

            He is waiting.

            “I thirst for blood.” He does, he must, if only to validate the streams of red and brown caking Dimitri’s fingers, the staff of his spear. Annette stumbles to his side, arms raised shakily, panting with slow breathes. Mercedes is behind her, hand clutched to his waist, loose hairs curling delicate around her face.

            The length of her dress dances in the slightest breeze, her hands clenching, pulling, at the skirt with every soft wandering step. Her eyes, his, meet amongst their fallen allies, their angry friends. Felix grits his teeth, grinding noises echoing, as he stabs at the wandering corpses, granting the death they so desire. Bloody coughs and whimpers, open palms and grasping fingers, agape mouths awash with shattered teeth and smashed collars. A man with no ears, cut clean, face burnt to crisp with deep slits from arrows pulled clean adorning his body. He is dead, beyond dead, murdered and killed and set aflame.

            His family will never hear of his final moments, choking and screaming in war.

            “You,” Mercedes’ voice is light, judgement, holy air itself gathering at her temples, “try to hide yourself with that mask and helmet.” Dimitri breathes, drawing back, grasping Dedue with trembling fingers. If this were to go wrong—if they were to miscalculate—

            No. No. It cannot go wrong.

            “But I know who you really are.” It is her, and him, standing together. Byleth at her side, Annette on her other. Death Knight, alone, his companions cut down. His people destroyed. Himself, armored, single.

            He raises his sword.

            “Mercedes!” It is Dimitri, feet alight with fury, worry, ravenous protection, gathering Areadbhar in his fist and charging forward. It is Dedue, yelling after him, hands stained brown from fallen foes. It is Ingrid, and Sylvain, Felix, who stumble forward with a scream, narrow eyes, glittering weapons. It is Ashe, swiveling on the ground, the whistle of an arrow slipping free of his grasp. It is Byleth, clenching the Sword of the Creator, the shift of its whip clanging as it slashes along the ground. It is Annette, her arms raised high, the shrieking edge of her voice silenced as her crusher slams against Death Knight, shattering the armor folding him close.

            It is Mercedes, crying out, her arms alight with life itself, as the sword in his hand falls loose form open fingers.

            The screech of their weapons smashing along the grounds, red-stained marble, is no more than background for the crimson sorrow that blooms from Death Knight, fallen body the final piece to the Empire’s crumbling defense. Mercedes cries, her throat squeezing shut as harsh sobs force her hands unsteady, fingers trembling as they slide off the helmet keeping the Death Knight secret.

            Jeritza, Emilie. Her brother, disintegrating in her hands.

            “What!” Even the immediate shushing by Lindhart cannot quell Caspar’s echoing shout. Felix stiffens, his swords dancing dangerously, Ingrid at his side with narrowed eyes. Caspar raises his hands, stumbling back, though his eyes remain still on the fallen body of his commander. Dimitri swallows, skimming the ground with the head of Areadbhar, eyes slipping to Dedue, his head bowed to Emilie.

            Annette falls to her knees, hands sliding to grasp Mercedes’ shoulders, pulling her close. They cry, silent, together, sympathetic tears brimming at Annette’s eyes. Byleth steps back, nodding to their army, steps silent as they walk away.

            Dimitri breaks from the crowd. Dedue steps to follow him, quiet from the raise of Dimitri’s hand. Solemn, private, reflection. Sylvain and Ingrid sheath their weapons, dropping down onto one knee at Mercedes’ side, bowing their head. A final farewell, the fall of Ashe’s hand against her hair, the slow steps of Felix drawing close, eyes on the crumpling form of their enemy.

            No, not their enemy. He was Mercedes’ friend, brother, once. Now he is not that, nor their enemy, nor any title. Just ash, and blood, and dust. Just a corpse faded away.

            Lindhart and Caspar are silent at Byleth’s side. Though Lindhart yawns, hands dismissive as his eyes focus on the lingering clouds overhead, Caspar’s eyes are suspiciously wet, mouth quivering as his hands furl at his sides. Claude is steps behind them, equally quiet, gaze slow in its wander along the floor.

            There is nothing to see but blood and guts and shattered bones, the remains of life scattered along the tile.

            “You’ve won.” Quiet, a whisper of a word. His hand waxes with the length of the string taut in his bow, sliver of arrows hanging from his shoulder. Byleth turns to him, their brows furrowed even as they nod. They did. They won.

            Yet, the plummeting depth in Dimitri’s stomach protests the sentiment. His eyes track his own body, bloodied, burnt, weathered armor sunken in at areas. Truly, a survivor of war.

            “We should find a river. It would be best for everyone to sleep early, today.” Byleth’s voice betrays their stony expression, a bare warble along the vowels. So it may be. Though Dimitri had never quite known Jeritza, certainly not enough to find himself a friend, he has known Mercedes for long enough for every choking sob of her to pierce him cleanly, eyes shriveling under the pain. It is best for him to stand here, a distance, from her mourning form.

            It is, after all, his command that ended in such a way.

            “Was this unnecessary?”

            The words slip out of his lips. Byleth stiffens, their hands gripping at Caspar and Lindhart, the former continuing to quell his tremors, the latter’s eyes darting meaningfully to Dimitri. It is Claude, lingering, who tilts his head forward. He is clean, gold, sparkling, a remarkable contrast to the bloodied scene at their feet, their eyes, hanging heavy in the air. His hands fall open, free from his bow, a wide sweep at the remains in every angle, every turn of Dimitri’s head.

            Red, and brown, the smell of iron and death. The sound of Mercedes’ sobs, Annette’s quiet ones at her side, solemn silence from his friends. Allies, alive, at such cost. At any cost, for them, in here, in war.

            “It’s war,” Claude answers. Lindhart stares, his hands tight. “Isn’t it?”

            It will be nearly a month before Dimitri can cleanse his clothing of brown flakes and faded splatters. It will be much shorter before Mercedes will smile at him. Much longer before she will smile at him truthfully. Forever before she can forget the face of her brother.

            It’s war.


            They take the early bath, quiet dinner. Mercedes is the first to descend into her chambers, if they can be called that, no more than bare bone bedding and wood laid flat on the dirt. Annette retires soon after, her eyes hollowed with sympathetic grief, and soon after her trails Felix, who sits with them both. Ashe and Ingrid recruit Sylvain to aid them in cleaning the wrappings that held their food. In a matter of moments, the only ones left sitting around are Dimitri, Dedue, Byleth, Claude, and their two new friends.

            Caspar and Lindhart.

            “You can’t keep us prisoner! That’s just wrong!” Despite the hissing words, Caspar’s voice is quiet, dim, his eyes making poor disguise of the frequent darting towards Mercedes’ corner. His hands hold tight on his knees, tugged close, face shaking against the hollow armor he refuses to take off. He is grimy, sticky with sweat and blood, having refused to bathe.

            “Then leave.” Dimitri raises an eyebrow at Lindhart. He hadn’t expected the sleepy man to be so adapt to their mottled crew, but Lindhart had wandered within conversations with ease, bare boredom evident on his face. Lindhart meets his glance with his own pointed one, a hand shifting back to tug on Caspar’s hand.

            They both glance at Ashe’s drooped form over the dishes, Ingrid and Sylvain whispering soft words into his ears.

            “I’m not keeping anyone prisoner,” Dimitri corrects, coughing into his fist. Something akin to a snort comes from his right, where he’s quite certain Claude’s sitting, legs crossed lazily. “I am just—I didn’t want to—um.” Dedue presses his hand against Dimitri’s back, patient, kind, always, even as Dimitri falters and stutters and fails to amend the smallest of things. His eyes dart towards Byleth.

            “We believe in a Fodlan without unnecessary deaths.” Claude’s sharp intake of breath is a pleasure to note, dimming against the fall of Byleth’s eyes. They roll their fingers over the folds of their pants, wrinkled fabric worn down by constant travel, peering from Dedue to Dimitri, to Claude, to Lindhart and Caspar.

            “I… don’t want to hurt any of my students.” Caspar ducks his head, properly shamed, even as Lindhart bobs in acknowledgement. It’s been a time, a long time, since Dimitri had a chance to properly hear Byleth emote, their hands waxing in the air as words bubble and float. “This may be war, but it isn’t slaughter. You were… my students, too, once. I’d like to see your children one day.” If they make it. If there’s anything left to live on, untouched ground between the three rulers.

            “I’m only sorry I arrived so late.” The words barely slip past Byleth’s mouth before they burst into words.


            “Professor, please, that’s not what—”

            “Teach, come on!”

            “We are incredibly thankful for you.”

            “Byleth, you’ve only been gre—”

            Their protests are halted by Byleth raising a hand, their brows quirked. The momentary lull is punctuated by the settlement of their words in the air, the dawning realization that, even outside of the classroom, they’ve clearly not grown past their affections for their professor, former mercenary or not. It isn’t until Byleth’s mouth quirks into a slow smile, the beginnings of a rumbling laugh shaking their shoulders, that their volume returns.

            “That’s not how we feel! We missed you!” Caspar yells. His voice echoes in the air, arms outstretched, jolting to his feet to stand tall. They quiet, staring, until Lindhart clears his throat, glancing upward to Byleth.

            “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I’m, I’m also glad that we could meet again.” Though his words dull, the steely resolve in Lindhart’s eyes is truthful. Caspar nods, huffing, his arms coming down to angle at his waist, the squeaky creak of his dulled armor.

            “Me too.” Quiet, soft, forcing Dimitri to rear his head over. Claude smiles at them, something more genuine in a moment than he can recall ever truly seeing on his classmate’s faces. “I missed you, teach.”

            Dimitri swallows, feeling remarkably displaced from the choir of sentiments. He’s—he’s been lucky enough to have Byleth on his side this whole time, from dawn to dusk in these shortening days, frozen solid by plummeting degrees. Even from long ago, years past in the academy, knowing that he would have Byleth if nothing else. Had Claude known a reassurance like he? Had Edelgard?

            What would life be like, if Byleth had been in their lives an equal?

            “Perhaps we should retire for the night. It’s been a long day,” Byleth sighs, gathering their things and standing. They glance over to Caspar and Lindhart, perched together. “You two are free to stay and sleep with me. That may be best,” their eyes flicker over to Dimitri, Dedue, “perhaps we can all sleep together.”

            “A sleepover? You’re really clever, aren’t you, professor!” Caspar’s laughter is much too noisy for the chill of the night, yet it quirks a smile from Byleth before they descend into the corners of their camp, pulling out blankets and layers. They trail after Byleth, helping them gather sleeping supplies. Caspar and Lindhart can sleep on either side of Byleth, sandwiched by Dedue and Dimitri alike. Dimitri pauses, an unwinding blanket in his arms.

            Claude is still by the dwindling fire, a growing mess of papers and books at his feet.

            “Aren’t you going to bed?” The light of the flames dances over the slopes and curves of Claude’s face, hollowing out his features. He seems almost wild, like this, a being in the darkness dawning to the light. Dimitri swallows, a slow step forward, repeating his words. “Claude, aren’t you coming?”

            “And here I thought you’ve already moved on. Caspar and Lindhart can’t warm you up?” Dimitri flushes, Claude’s exaggerated sigh unnecessary. His hands tighten on the blanket, wrinkling the fabric with a soft whine. Claude laughs, rocking on the backs of his hands, legs crossing and straightening by the flames.

            “I’m trying to be serious, Claude. It’s been a long day. We truly must rest.” His eyes seem amber, gold, even, against the crackling yellow of the fire. Claude straightens, scooping up his texts, stretching his arms behind his head. His left foot knocks a stick into the fire, new crackling flames licking at the wood.

            “Sure.” Easy, simple. “Let’s go to bed, Dimitri.”

            He’s seen this before.


            There’s something heavy, hard, squeezing down on his neck. He’s—he’s dying, he thinks, dying and ascending and living all at once, pain splattering throughout his body. He’s exploding into an infinity of stars, sparkling, their eyes a spear that plunge into his body, gouging his pain, drawing his blood. There’s light beckoning at him, folding his fingers, a gentle weight on his body. Flush. Embracing, pulling him free of his body. Confines. Collar.


            Let me go.


                        Let me go.

                        “It’s just a nightmare.”

                                    Let me go       

                                                                       Let me go


“Bed, Dimitri.”


            Something smoothing at his temple, pressing at his cheeks. Warm, and foggy, familiar. He is home, somewhere, gently tucked into blankets, the beginnings of mother’s singings drawing upwards. He’s—young. Tiny. So many years ago, awoken by something. Anything.

            The sound of a dagger slicing his skin.

            “Go to bed.”

            He’s dying.

            Ah, thank you, goddess.

            He’s dying.


            The sun is well into the sky, punctuated by the loud crowing of flitting birds, the sweet scent of fresh snow broken up dawning snowberry flowers, by the time Dimitri’s eyes pierce his darkness. His limbs feel remarkably light for a day after a harsh battle, the usual thrashing of nightly worries a high after being so thoroughly soaked in blood. He sighs, shuffling upward, running a hand through his hair. Or, at least, he attempted to.

            Claude is nestled into his side, his hand properly captured against Claude’s neck, the tickle of his hair on Dimitri’s fingers.


            Dimitri freezes, biting down on his lip. His eyes dart the other way, revealing two empty spots where blanket and covers were once placed down. There’s fallen snow spilled into those spots, now crushed under Caspar’s sleeping form, his arm lazily thrown over Lindhart as he snores. Lindhart’s hair is curled gently around, caught in Caspar’s hand, every shallow rise and fall of his chest a gentle breath that rustles the blue hair. Drawn over them is two thicker blankets, no doubt Byleth and Dedue’s workings.

            There’s one blanketing him and Claude as well. It’s—he’s awfully close, they’re awfully close, pressed together skin to skin, thin undershirts ruffled and stretched from a night of fitful sleep.

            Perhaps not so fitful, if the gentle smoothness of Claude’s brows is any indication. For all his easy-going smirks and winks, it is still a surprise to see something akin to a smile on his face, a tick of his lips upward, the soft curve of his jaw against his hand. Claude breathes, sighs, something little more than a passing of air, warmth ghosting over Dimitri’s fingers. Dimitri shivers, unable to quell the sudden flush creeping upward, causing Claude to jerk against his hand, mumbling.

            “Dimi…?” There is nothing fair in the sudden thundering of Dimitri’s chest, screeching in his ears, alarms crawling up his arms. Claude’s eyes flicker open, slow, errant confusion pulling at his face. He’s—he’s drowsy, clearly, must be, for the easy climb against Dimitri’s chest, the crook of his face against Dimitri’s hand.

            “C-Claude.” He is eighteen again, a student in an itchy uniform attending long lectures, balancing spear training with archery and faith. Dimitri, watching the wisp of his breath in the cold air, who cannot still the pull of his eyes to familiar laughter, stilted. Claude had been freezing, so unbearably cold that every shake of his jaw had broken up his words, usual teasing unable to continue through his shivering. When their eyes had met, it was Dimitri who had walked closer, gesturing to his cloak.

            “Are you cold?” His tongue betrays him, memory breaking as Claude shifts onto his elbows, eyes focusing. His jaw tightens, falls loose, easy, just too much so. Dimitri’s broken it, this, the crystalline moment between them.

            Claude falls back against his side, lids falling shut, the press of his cheeks against Dimitri’s hand. Soft, his jaw working. Slow, breathing even.

            “Warm me up.” Words from five years ago, pressed close in the courtyard, watching fallen snow.

            The ground may be nothing more than dirt with dirtied towels and Dimitri’s fur to provide cover, their blankets worn with holes and torn by wild trashing and fights, yet Dimitri finds it remarkably easy to let his breathing slow, his fingers gentle as they trace the shape of Claude’s skin, his hair, closing the space between them. Flush, close like this, their breaths freeze in the air, frosty sighs puffing gently. Claude murmurs, a rumble of his chest, as he draws an arm to grasp Dimitri, burying his face into his chest. Warm.


            Dimitri falls back, biting down on a startled yelp as reality smashes in, Caspar’s face peering over Lindhart’s shoulder. Claude pops his own eyes upward, lidded so purposefully lazily that Dimitri shivers, the edge of danger prickling at his skin.

            “C-Casper! What, we, um, this is—” Heat betrays him, pink filling his cheeks, forcing Dimitri to silence his stammering.

            “Go back to kissing Lindhart.” Huh? The air may well whistle with the sheer force of Dimitri’s neck cracking as he whips back to Claude’s narrowed eyes and pinched cheeks, something of a pout twisting at his lips. Caspar offers none of the restraint Dimitri had, choosing to yelp before grabbing Lindhart, shaking his form.

            “How did you know! Okay, wait, wait! Lindhart! Lindhart, can we tell them?” Trust Caspar to diminish the mood and then replenish it with sheer energy. Lindhart’s groan is warbled with every shake of his shoulder, his head bobbing forward and back. Yet, angled away from Caspar, there is no mistaking the beginnings of a smile flickering at his lips.

            “They already knew. Well, Dimitri knows now.” Indeed, though he’s unsure what exactly he’s expected to do with this information. Dimitri swallows, his eyes falling down, the sounds of Caspar clinging and speaking washing over him. He wishes the ground would simply do him a favor and swallow him up.

            It’s Claude, always him, tugging at his hand with the bare rumblings of laughter. Goddess knows he’s amused, finding fun in the dreary awakening, horrified as Dimitri is. Though, honestly, it’s part of his charm.

            Everything is part of his charm.

            “Let’s get going. I think the lovers want to be left alone.” Lovers. Dimitri just knows his face is burned red, warm enough to replace the fires they cook on. The tinkling of Claude’s amusement is all that spurs him to take another step onward into the camp clearing.

            They are not the only ones to sleep in, the clearing a mild clamor of noises, bumping bowls and soft words. Annette is barely awake, her lids heavy as she nods against Mercedes’ shoulders, her hand grasping at Felix’s bobbing knee, his sword slung across his shoulder. Dedue occupies her other side, waxing his fingers in her hair, balancing three bowls of crushed grains and carrots. Byleth is gone from the clearing, no doubt either scouting the area or hunting, judging from the consistent jerking of Felix’s head to either side.

            “Dimitri!” Sunny, bright, the burst of a smile on Mercedes’ face. She is alive, still, even if her brother is not. Annette startles at her side, snorting loudly as she kicks out, whacking Felix. They groan in unison, darting apart, Annette blinking dizzily as Felix muffles a hiss, grasping his thigh. Dedue nearly drops his bowls, gathering them up to his neck.

            It is Byleth, appearing with two bloodied raccoons in hand, a sizable bucket of fish in the other, who breaks the scene. They peer over, a single brow raised, before dropping their prizes onto the snow.

            “Breakfast.” They really must be freshly caught, especially given Dimitri is quite certain those fish are shivering. Annette squeaks, though it is Felix who shouts.

            “We can’t eat raw fish!”

            Dimitri grins despite himself, preparing to calm Felix’s fuming anger, Annette’s wincing as the fish seem to flop. There is a pinch at his side, and he turns, the grasp of fingers pulling at his shirt, the press of a curved mouth pressed against his shoulders. Laughter, sincere. Claude’s giggles float around his head, dazzling, the warm flush of his cheeks pressed at the crook of his nape.

            “You guys are ridiculous. Let’s cook some fish.”

            Dimitri nods. He’s not certain he could have done anything else.

            His heart betrays him still, thudding thunderous in his chest.


            It is, perhaps, the fact that snow blanket sceneries have always looked the same to Dimitri that makes mornings so familiar, a lingering sense of forgotten unease locked away. Fodlan has truly begun to meet the depths of winter months, every moment another gust of wind, another brush of snow, the chilling bite of cold nipping at their skin.

            Though they pray for the fallen soldiers who have led them for so long, they share thanks for their equipment, bundling new blankets, tossing worn out boots and gears. Of course, Areadbhar stays resolutely in his hand, even as he adorns new gauntlets, lines his cape with a new pelt. Claude finally repairs his outerwear, and Dimitri is pleased to see familiar blue draped over his shirt, a new layer to warm him.

            Nothing, though, seems to warm him quite so much as Dimitri himself. Their nights are spent properly curled together, tucked under layers of felt and fur. Dimitri cannot recall a time he fell to the sweet call of sleep so quickly.

            Not since, well, a long time, ago.

            Dimitri shakes his head, tilting backward against his furs. He’s begun to grow used to the daily flush of warmth that accompanies Claude’s absolute refusal to acknowledge his personal space, any semblance of societal expectations. It’s… calming. Safe.

            Peace in war.

            Casper and Lindhart chose to stay—or, honestly, Caspar demanded to accompany them, determined to help Mercedes find solace. Lindhart had simply come along, usually opting for Caspar to help carry him partway. On the bright side, they’ve gotten Caspar to bathe. On the other, the awkward oddities of new members, former enemies, joining the team have resurfaced. At the very least, Ashe is getting along remarkably well with them.

            Ashe has also fallen for Petunia, as has Dedue, and Annette, and essentially every member of his army. Even Dimitri himself cannot refuse the gentle wyvern, her sparkling eyes as masterful at handling people as her master. If she were to ever desire to take over Fodlan for herself, well, Dimitri cannot fathom that she would have any issues with her conquest. He informs Claude as much.

            “Petunia is going to rule Fodlan before I do.” It’s a joke, just a passing comment, just a needling touch wanting to hear the sparkle of laughter, the crinkling of Claude’s eyes. Claude hums, peering upward, nuzzling free from Dimitri’s arms. It’s an awful shame, the cold air immediately ducking into the small cracks of space between them.

            Dimitri expects the teasing, the taunting. He expects the wink, the smirk, the crook of Claude’s chin.

            He is not expecting the darkening of Claude’s eyes, the pointed edge of his teeth.

            “Who’s to say I’m not going to steal it from you first?”


            Dimitri freezes, jaw clicking shut, as Claude rolls onto the backs of his knees. Their blankets fall, pooling to their side, and he is suddenly, acutely aware of the weight pressed on his body, of Claude fitting perfectly at the curve of his waist. Claude dips forward, close, so close, the fall of his hair brushing at Dimitri’s cheeks.

            They were flush just a minute ago, and yet, tracking the length of his lashes, the wet shine of his lips, Dimitri suddenly feels like they are squeezed tight, the sky itself collapsing into them, folding them close.

            “I, um, I didn’t.” Too warm, the layers on their bodies, the weight of fleece on their feet. Had he offended? Had he hurt? No, no. Not that.

            There isn’t pain flickering in Claude’s eyes. It’s something stinging much more viciously.

            “Go to bed, Dimitri.” Soft, a scoff, a chuckle. Fingers at his temple, running his hair back. Familiar, warm. Smooth.

            He’s seen this before.

            “I’m awake.”

            Claude’s fingers still at his scalp, blond locks entangled in his fingers, running along his palm. They fall at once, slipping across Dimitri’s face, as Claude’s hand snaps back, the chill of the air between them making Dimitri shiver. Claude’s face is frozen, blank, before an easy smile slides on his face.

            “Yeah, me too. Guess we should get ready for the day, huh?” With that, Claude slides back fully, blankets falling off his ankles, exposing Dimitri entirely to cold. He should—he should say something. Apologize. For what?

            He’s seen this before.

            “Kill me.” Claude blinks, still, his hand crooking at the hem of his pant, glancing downward. He is silent, still, for a moment as chilling as the icy clouds in the air. Smiling, a constant, just smiling.

            “What?” False surprise or bland refusal?

            “Kill me.” Truth. He’s sworn to be honest.

            Claude’s smile has sloped off, his lips a thin line. His hands slope upwards, the barest tingle of his fingers brushing at Dimitri’s sides, his chest, pinching the fabric of his shirt. Dimitri lays flat, or perhaps, he cannot do much but lay flat. His arms must be heavy. His legs must be heavy. The only thing not heavy is his jaw.

            “Claude.” The hands still, fingertips just scratching at his collar.

            “Dima.” Ah. Dimitri can smile, still, eyes digging into Claude.

            “Kill me. Please.”

            The pressure on his neck is gentle, so gentle, soft and pressing and unrelenting, nothing more than blind force against the bob of his throat. Dimitri swallows, feeling himself shake, feeling the pressure shift. Claude swallows in tune, hands tightening a second more, closer. Warmer. He can breathe. He can breathe still.

            Is it the loss of air that makes his skin glow so beautifully?


            Warmth, soft. The gentle press of skin, hair, lips. Something so lovely, so sweet, so human. Claude, gold, glittering, his lonely fallen star.

            “Go to bed, Dimitri.”

            He will never let him go.


            Thin red lines, deep purple bruises. Primal instincts, in their truest fashion.

            Marks of red and red and red, decorated in layers of gold and lace and the softest blanket of white chiffon, falling over them. A vibration of a sigh pressed against an ear, the flush of warmth against his stomach. The tightening of something along his thigh.

            A whine, high, falling. A star descending from the sky, locked in chains.

            He wants, he wants, he wants.

            His hands dig into the curve of flesh, digging lines into the dark skin, shining, shimmering. Something rumbles against him, shrill, soft, the cosmos itself folding in above his body, flickering as brightly as light itself. He growls, he pants, he needs, drawing blood with a bite, rutting dangerous. A beast to his own desires.

            Mesmerized. Hypnotized.

            Dimitri needs.

            Claude is—Claude is. Ethereal. Otherworldly. A being made of dust and ash and tears and the world itself, brighter than any day, darker than any night. He is the dawn and the dusk, the beginning, the end. The owner, the owned.

            “Go to bed.”

            The collar around Dimitri tightens, fast, harsh. He pants. He whines. He groans. Warm, dizzying warmth. When Claude breathes, his mind spins.

            Not a molecule of air can force its way between them, caught tight, Dimitri’s arm wrapping him close. The slide of their bodies is lovely, so lovely, especially so when Claude squirms in his arms, a quiet rasp to his ear.

            If he is to be chained

            If he is to be collared

            If he is to be tied down by this deal

            So be it.

            Hands across his throat, forcing him silent. The press of warmth against his temple.

            “Go to bed, Dimitri.”

            Fragile, delicate. A glass ring, twinkling in the light. Sincere, even against that false disposition, gentle, betraying his own actions. Kind, so much so that the thought of war cuts so deeply. If Dimitri were, if he were, he could smash Claude right now. Grasp the chains binding him close, force him onto his back, ruin him completely. Shatter his bones, his insides, his spirit, crush him so brutally that there would never again be a sliver of that silver tongue he is so fond of using.

            Dimitri wants to die in these hands, bound by these rules.

            “Kill me.”

            If he were to explode into the cosmos, disintegrate into dust, Dimitri would be at peace.

            Wielder of Areadbhar, leader of Faerghus. Necessary death.


            Dimitri awakes, alone in the dark. He’s warm, overheating, suddenly aware of the depth of blankets covering his skin, swaddling him completely from head to toe. He groans, shifting onto his elbows, pushing upwards. Registering the room. Right.

            They had been lucky enough to find the remains of a ransacked home. Not too much food that hadn’t spoiled, but there was operating electricity, and the promise of warmth. Water. New supplies to replace their old, Dedue and Mercedes occupying their time by the fireplace sewing up torn holes and loose stockings. There was a meat hook, a rarity in most homes, and Byleth, Sylvain and Ingrid alike had taken to spearing down wild hogs to salt and roast. The first nights were simple, peaceful in assorting the items and settling in. The third had been a feast, hog sliced thin and drizzled with preserved fruit jams yet to spoil, slightly stale bread pieces. Even the potatoes, cabbage and carrots, their everyday offerings, seemed splendid and joyful with thickened oils poured over.

            That was two nights ago. The next morning, dizzy from the joys of delicious food, high from the cheers and laughter of his crew, Dimitri had overstepped. Asked too much.

            He remembers, now.

            Trust, lust, fear. Raw spikes of fury and resentment, the coldest chill of facades. Smiles that mean nothing, frowns that mean the world. The trails of gold and silver that seem to drape over Claude so naturally, his eyes emeralds that capture Dimitri so tightly, make him want to adorn himself in them. He cannot, when Claude had fled the scene in a myriad of shadows, left Dimitri spinning without a gemstone to possess.

            He’s almost tempted to pluck them from Claude and craft a ring to hold them in. But it would be so upsetting, knowing they would never be so beautiful as encased in Claude himself.

            The thought makes Dimitri sick.

            Funny, how heavy his limbs drag, slow to remove the blankets from his figure. He’s never been sensitive to the cold, having grown in one of the chilliest cities in Fodlan, yet he shivers now. It’s a deep-seated freeze, something digging into his chest. Guilt.

            Deep, deep guilt.

            It cuts further into him than the width of his flesh, so thoroughly ripping him apart. The look on Claude’s face—Dimitri grinds his teeth. He should have said no. He should have left.

            How could he, gasping under Dimitri’s body, hooked so helplessly to his form? How could he refuse, when his life could be crushed so easily under Dimitri’s hands, when his only companions were miles away, bloodstains in this unholy war?

            How could Dimitri expect Claude to do anything but lie with that beautiful smile carved into his face?

            Byleth offers him a tired nod when Dimitri descends the stairs. It’s too dark, sometime before dawn, yet Dimitri is only mildly surprised to see his professor awake. Byleth is nursing what seems to be a warm drink in their hands—tea, most likely.

            There’s another cup at their side, stale cookies. Dimitri’s been expected.

            “Hello, professor. You’re up late.” Funny, his words are as tasteless as the crumbs pressed into his mouth. The cookie crumbles, unable to hold its form, and Dimitri finds himself taking out his anger on it with a hard grind of his teeth. He grasps another and shoves it into his mouth, mashing the two against his tongue.

            Byleth raises an eyebrow, gesturing to the tea. Well, Dimitri can’t figure he looks remarkably civilized, stuffing himself with broken treats.

            “Thank you.” Crumbs spray from his mouth and he does fluster, just the tad bit, when it earns him an amused quirk of Byleth’s lips. Dimitri sighs, taking a seat and downing half the tea. It’s scalding, his tongue rejecting the heat instinctively, yet he forces it down. He feels an awful lot like being in pain.

            The empty space in his bed could be punishment enough, if it weren’t self-imposed.

            “Bad dreams?” Memories, though not awful ones. Dimitri shakes his head, careful to place the tea back before it spills over the rim. He doesn’t want to regale Byleth the sudden visions that have occupied his head, made his mind spin, forced his sleeping mate away. It wouldn’t be fair to them to hear it.

            Claude’s face, his body, his smile, pearly white and sickening sweet if it weren’t so dangerous. Claude, gasping under his weight, the quiet calls of familiar faces grasping Dimitri’s neck, his shoulders, his stomach. Forcing him over, looming, begging for a death that he so desperately wishes for, even with the death of Rodrigue hanging high. Especially with the death of Rodrigue.

            They asked for death, for vengeance, for something tangible and real and bloody, and Dimitri had soaked himself so thoroughly in their thirst that he was lost in a sea of murky purple greys, the mixing of his stained furs and the remains of his foes, his allies, people he could have once called classmates. Alone, floating in nothing, until a jingle of something flashed by. Until he had forced his eye open, seeing glossy stars, seeing falling snow.

            Seeing green eyes blinking down on him, the press of something to his face. Comfort. Pleasure. Desire.

            How could Dimitri say no, if Claude hadn’t?

            “It’s snowing.” Dimitri blinks, reality returning to his bones. Right. He’s cold, teeth chattering slightly, though the crackling warmth of the fireplace is awfully calming to listen to. Byleth sinks their teeth into a cookie, slow, chewing it aimlessly as they glance out the window to the flakes outside. Snow is quickly becoming an everyday occurrence, which would be lovely if it weren’t hampering their travels so.

            Dimitri would like to get to Enbarr before the end of the month.

            “It is.” Byleth trains their eyes on Dimitri again, placing their tea cup down with a sound click. Dimitri winces. Funny, years later, how easily he relents to Byleth’s teaching’s still. His professor even in war.

            “Your bed must be cold.” The words force a quirk from Dimitri’s lips, though he can’t muster up much amusement. Ironic, how sharp Byleth’s blunt words could be. He shrugs, picking again at his tea, breathing in the scent.

            “I’m used to it. I was raised in Faerghus, after all.” Winters were long, harsh winds blowing doors shut before the chill could properly creep in, ruining young and old. Dimitri hums, tracing figures into the wood. “It is a good deal colder for some of our newer members.”

            Lindhart. Caspar.


            Byleth nods, though they don’t offer any more conversation. Tea has always been quiet, with them, more gentle prods and observations than anything. Dimitri has a sinking feeling Byleth has an awful lot to say, just that they would rather not. Then again, professor has never been one for words.

            Not even scolding for Dimitri, trembling alone by his own words and actions. Perhaps Byleth set up tea in prediction of Dimitri’s presence.


            Or perhaps not.

            Ingrid raises an eyebrow at their inevitable sorry state, clearly chilled from her time patrolling. Right. He’s nearly forgotten about their patrol schedule, and the order struggles to rise to his mind.

            “Hey!” It’s answered rather easily for him when Claude descends the stairs. He’s clad in full uniform, puffy jacket, oversized pants. It is the depth of blue, thick, familiar, that freezes Dimitri in place.

            His own fur cape, draped over Claude’s shoulder still.

            “I’m going to freeze my butt off,” Claude laughs, winking at Ingrid. Teasing. Sweet. She scoffs, smacking his arm with familiarity. Right. Dimitri forgets it still, how accustomed his friends have gotten to Claude’s presence. And hadn’t they had to, with how closely Dimitri stuck Claude into their circle, with how loyal Dimitri followed Claude’s every word, every scheme?

            Hadn’t they had to, with chains neat around Claude’s ankles?

            “Hey, teach.” Claude notices Dimitri finally, glancing over to him and for a fraction of a moment Dimitri can almost imagine the slipping of his smile, the shock struck frozen. Then it broadens, wide, as generously false as any of his past transgressions. “Dima.”

            Then the door slaps shut behind him.

            “Ouch.” Indeed. Byleth nods to Ingrid’s wince, and then she’s shaking off the snow from her cape, letting it droop to the floor as she appraises the smatterings of tea and cookies remaining. Byleth’s presence here suddenly makes significantly more sense, as does their arrangement. Dimitri swallows, suddenly wishing he hadn’t come down at all.

            Dimitri hasn’t been allowed to patrol yet. He can’t say that he’s particularly surprised about the decision.

            “I think I drank your tea.” He’s quite certain of it, actually. Ingrid offers something of a sigh, a roll of her eyes as her spear drops to the side.

            “There’s more tea. Want some?” Dimitri shakes his head, scooting off the chair and standing off. He’s preparing to disappear, preferably back to his room to lick at old wounds, when Ingrid interrupts him with a shake of her head, gesturing at the cookies. “I didn’t say you had to go.”

            “I should go to bed.”

The words slip out of his mouth without meaning, though it is only a beat faster that they register. Dimitri feels his face warmth, betraying, tongue suddenly tied and uneasy. Ingrid raises an eyebrow, though she finally sits, pouring herself a cup. The tea is still warm enough to steam, and she sips at it without breaking eye contact. Byleth’s presence, quiet, is no help. Dimitri sweats.

            Whatever words hanging on Ingrid’s tongue fades, her brows softening as she takes a deeper glance at Dimitri. They haven’t had proper time to simply… unwind like this, in a long time. Not, at the very least, since five years back.

            All, any, calming of Dimitri had only come at the expense of too much. He doesn’t expect her mercy, nor her pity. He doesn’t particularly want it.

            Then again, Dimitri’s never been particularly good at getting what he wants.

            “It must be strange, to sleep alone again.” Ingrid’s words are carefully placed, sipping delicately at her tea a moment after. Dimitri shifts in place, though he fails to quell the burning of his cheeks. It was his own words, his own request, and yet—

            He knew he would regret asking Claude to leave. He just didn’t realize the extent of it.

            “It’s alright.” Dimitri’s voice betrays him, warbling dangerously. He’s never been particularly good at lying, and though Ingrid often enough lets him pass, the crook of her brow suggests against any further attempts tonight. He glances to Byleth, but they have nothing to add but the silent crunch of another sweet.

            Conversation peters off, just like that. Ingrid eats two cookies in succession, swallowing down her tea and pouring another cup. She offers it to Dimitri, glaring at him when he refuses. Byleth continues sipping at their own seemingly endless drink until they relent, letting the cu and plate clink.

            Then they are up, cape floating at their ankles, glancing at Dimitri.

            “Goodnight, professor.” Byleth nods at them both, gingerly picking up the sword tucked under their chair. It slides into their hand with easy familiarity, slicing at the ground, before their eyes are back to Dimitri. Unblinking, unflinching.

            “He’s going to freeze.” There’s no questioning who he is. Dimitri sputters, made worse by Ingrid shaking her head, scoffing.

            “Don’t bother. He won’t listen,” she pauses, then, glancing between them, “well. Not to us.”

            It’s unfair. Professor and Ingrid alike look at him expecting—what? Fury, or outrage, or despair. He doesn’t know, standing feeling numbly like nothing at all.

            “I’m going to bed,” he repeats. It’s not a retreat.

            Dimitri’s an awful liar, even to himself.


            “Get out.”

            “What happened to being honest?” Claude’s laughing. Of course he’s laughing, smiling, that glitter in his eyes, that glow to his cheeks. Dimitri wishes, not for the first time, that he had an ounce of deception Claude had, a milliliter of his ability to see through lies. Just enough to know that Claude’s laughter was—fake. Illusion.

            It has to be.

            “You don’t want this.” Dimitri shakes his head, pulling back. Now that he’s looking, looking, he sees them. Scratches and scars fresh on dark skin, the fading bruises of bites. Flowers of purples and blues from a scuffle outside of combat. Indents the size of fingers, pressed along his hips.

            “Please, leave.”

            Claude’s laugh dies off, though his smile doesn’t fade, sloppy, wrong. Awkward against the rise of his shoulders, the bend of his knees upward. He looks awfully small like this, perched on the edge of the bed. Perhaps he’s always been small to Dimitri.

            It made it awfully easy to pull him down.

            “I told you no lies, remember? Our deal?” Their deal. They made a deal.

            “Then get out.”

            Claude shrugs, easy, simple. However, his smile fades, the thinning of his lips. They’re still—pink. Bruised. Sore, likely, from when Dimitri forced his onto him. Grasping, biting, eating.

            Claude is so small.

            “Leave!” Dimitri roars, slamming his hands against the mattress. The bed bounces, loud thudding against the wall, and even so Claude does little more than blink. Not a movement for his weapon. Not a movement to retreat.

            Sitting on his bed still, unfairly beautiful in his nudity. Dimitri cannot quell the tremor in his hands, the darting of his eyes to Claude’s chest as it rises and falls with every breath, the glint of a gold ring on his left nipple. The area is reddened, almost inflamed. Dimitri had pulled at it, hard, long, until Claude had gasped into the crook of his neck, relenting. He had been too rough.

            Claude deserves better.

            “Leave,” Dimitri repeats. His shoulders droop, exhaustion wearing at his form. He is—he is tired. Worn. Aged, so much, from war and death and fear and blood, from cutting lies and cutting truths and the stains of unnecessary deaths on his armor, in his body, ghosts gagging in his throat.

            “Get out, please.”

            Claude leaves, taking Dimitri’s fur with him.


            Dimitri roars, stabbing through the chest of another man, shattering the armor effortlessly and plunging the steel bits into his heart. He kicks at the form, releasing Areadbhar and spinning to smash at two more, watching them stain their uniforms with the color of their lifeline.


            Red and red and red and red.

            It is so much easier to become a beast.

            “Your highness!” Dedue. Dedue, and Annette, and Mercedes, by his right and under his arm, somewhere near Byleth. They stand tall, swinging effortless, easy, smoothly cutting through one, two, three more men. Effective. Efficient. Dimitri skewers one more.

            Felix is a constant for his chaos, grappling at his armor only to be roughly shoved back as Dimitri charges forward again. A red man stumbles back, fear, despair, dawning in his eyes. No matter. Dimitri runs straight through him, throwing his spear to puncture through one more body, the splash of red and stench of iron reeking from their forms.

            He’s laughing. Is he laughing? No, he can’t be, more of a growl than any words. Areadbhar returns to his hand with a wet sound, releasing two limp bodies onto the floor. An Empire yells—several, many, their heads removed, their stomachs split open, their legs somewhere on the floor. Those wearing red—those wearing red…

            He will drench them in their color.

            “Watch out!” Dimitri grunts, eyes flickering to Sylvain ducking under his arm, slashing at the incoming troops coming close. He’s red, his hair slick with sweat, his armor decorated with his colors. There’s red on him, soaked in him, the fabric of his clothes, trials of blood of people once living. Dimitri flings a hand out and smashes a skull in his fist.

            “Your highness, what’s gotten into you?” Easy, gentle, as though Sylvain is not flickering between Dimitri and Ingrid—Ingrid, hovering close by, above. White, porcelain, clean. Dimitri is dirty.

            “Only the strong succeed.” The roar comes easy. His calves tense, ankles arching before he’s leaping, off, teeth bared and eye alight with flames as he swings areadbhar clean into another squadron. They yell, sputter, scream, returning his attack with desperate jabs at his armor. Too slow. So slow. They miss, they hit, it doesn’t matter.

            “Is that all?” A challenge. A hungry demand. He jumps from their fallen bodies to the next, pulling areadbhar free of limp forms. The Empire has called for reinforcements, and somehow they’ve arrived, keeping the Kingdom at bay, swords and spears and arrows striking in the air, the warmth of artificial magic swirling along the arms of the living still. Some try to revive the fallen, others scream, pulling their cloaks close, fire and darkness and death gnawing at their foes.

            They are enough. They are too much. Dimitri screams, long, throaty, the sight of Ashe tumbling to his feet in the corner of his eye. Felix is yelling, rushing to Annette, her shoulders slumped as she pants, dress splattered with the remains of the men surrounding her. Dedue is close by. Dedue is fighting. Mercedes’ smile is a lie.

            He can no longer see Byleth over the rows of red against his eye.

            “Who’s next?” Dimitri spits as he loosens his grip on areadbhar, releasing it and tackling the sea of red blocking his path back. They are still here, they are still coming, even as Dimitri swings and bites and kicks and hits, fists breaking through steel helmets, nails cutting through human flesh. He shatters a person’s wrist, another’s neck, another’s skull. The feeling of broken bone is almost commonplace, every splatter of red just a fleck of water. Every death dwindles their numbers more, reduces the Empire’s territory more, brings him close to her. Every death is a necessary sacrifice in the face of war.

            “Argh!” Someone grasps his hair and forces him down. Dimitri trashes against them, him, her, it, just another blank face amongst the rest. They spear him, sword him, shoot at him, burning flames and swirling darkness biting at his flesh even through his armor, melting it against his flesh. He screams, wild, feral, blind to nothing but red, and even as they hurt him he swears to hurt them back. Again, and again, and his armor begins to crumple. There is an opening by his leg, immediately broken into by the sharp point of a spear. He yells, eye widening as red, his red, begins to pool.

            Every death is necessary.

            His arms continue to grasp at the nearest faces, hooking onto bobbing throats and snapping their necks. Even so, Dimitri feels his arms falter. His legs slow, their kicking out made painful by the scattering of shallow cuts along his knees, the bleeding gap of a spear plunged deep into his thigh. A man slashes at his face with a knife, cutting his eyepatch loose, and even in the murky crimson he can see the wretched twist of the man’s face, the sight of his socket in view. Dimitri gasps, two hands squeezing hard at his throat. Weak, still, and he smashes in the head of the person. It is a distraction.

            His eye rises, too little, too late. A man stands at his front, sword upward. It swings.

            Dimitri squeezes his eyes shut, even with one socket being nothing but useless skin. A shame for the Kingdom to fall here, fall by their feral beast. Even so, he cannot say that he is particularly surprised. He had told Byleth once, years ago, that time had changed him. Without their guidance, he may have died long before, to men like these.

            He is going to die here, to a man in red whose face he does not know, whose name he has never called before. He is going to die here, punctured by spears and arrows and burnt by magic, hair pulled back against the dirt, a sword to skewer his face. He is going to die here, dyed in crimson, knowing that every step he took will be retaken.

            Every death is necessary. Even his.


            The loosening of the hands in his hair is his only warning before the body before him slumps over, sword falling from loosened hands. Dimitri grasps at the hilt, stabbing at the red holding the spear plunged into his thigh. He gasps as he loosens it, wriggles it out, surely cutting deeper into his tissue. But it is a weapon, a tool, and he tosses it forward to skewer two more.

            The man who had pulled him down by his hair lies dead on the floor, an arrow through his throat.

            Dimitri would believe it’s Ashe. He has no other archers on his team, no other who could watch him so closely, shooting precise arrows at the bloodied sea swarming his limbs still. His legs have slowed, the wound a constant pressure, red and red and red pounding against his head. He’s punching. He’s yelling. He’s screaming, pulling areadbhar from fallen foes, as arrows fly free into the faces of the men around him.

            It is not until his surroundings are clear that Dimitri raises his eye.

            Petunia. She’s beautiful, scales shiny as they catch the light, flying fast in the air. Arrow after arrow is loosened from her back, perfect hits through throats, between eyes, two piercing through ribs to puncture the lungs. She roars, hungry, a beast as much as Dimitri himself.

            “Your highness!” Dedue’s call is a winded shout, and then Dimitri is being pulled back, cooling touches along his arm. Oh. Mercedes pants, tugging his arm close, familiar glow of her hands on his limbs, sealing shallow cuts. She swallows when Dimitri grunts, raising his leg. Even her magic will not properly seal the puncture, deep as it is in his thigh.

            “Thank you.” Here, Dimitri can slow, his own heavy pants audible to his ear. The Empire’s reinforcements have finally been cut down, Byleth standing tall with their sword clutched in their hand, red crusted between the bone. They have paved a way in the red, Felix and Sylvain at their rear, Ashe holding his bow close, an arrow spinning in his hand. Ingrid and Annette are a pace behind. Her Pegasus is no longer white, now stained bloody red handprints along their side, trotting slowly with a deep gash in its wing.

            They’re safe. He’s safe.

            Dimitri grunts as gusts of wind smack at him, his hair flying back. Dedue shields him warily, blocking his eye from blades of grass and loose blood flung loose by the flapping wings. Petunia roars, descending onto the field, her eyes amber as they fixate on them. Mercedes’ drops her arm, pulling away her cool warmth from Dimitri’s leg, the waxy white scar of artificial health left behind.

            Claude drops from Petunia, his bow clutched in his hand. His eyes are blank, easy smile on his face as he nods to Mercedes and Dedue.

            “Hey! I think Byleth wants us to go up ahead.” He gestures to their back, coat floating gently as Felix pulls Annette to a stop by their behind, Ingrid and Sylvain clutching their sides as they lean against each other, Ashe waving at them. Dedue waves back, though his feet stay put. His eyes stay on Dimitri, jaw chewing on air.

            “Go,” Dimitri assures. Mercedes hums, tugging at Dedue’s arm, and then they are gone, careful steps over trails of red and split insides, twitching fingers amongst fallen bodies. Petunia coos after them, curling her wings high to shade her master. He walks under her soft underbelly, green eyes hazy.

            They refocus immediately when his hand slams against Dimitri’s throat.

            “Hey.” Claude smiles as his other hand comes up to pinch at Dimitri’s hair, rubbing stray locks between his fingers. He hums, glancing over his shoulder to the rest of the team making their way to Byleth. Petunia’s wing comes downward, effectively shielding the sky from Dimitri’s gaze.

            “Hey,” Claude repeats, and then they’re flush, feet to feet, Claude’s hands grasping Dimitri’s hair and pulling him downward. He stumbles, blankly aware of the dull ache of his legs, radiating outward from his thigh. Dimitri blinks, mouth clicking shut as Claude slides closer, closer still, gliding by Dimitri’s cheek to ghost a breath at his ear. “Dima.”

            The fingers at his throat squeeze.

            “Want me to kill you?” Oh.


            “Y-you’re upset.” He must be, that false smile playing on his lips, the hand running its knuckles against Dimitri’s scalp, the fingers loosening and pressing hard on his throat.

            It’s instinctual, the hand grasping at Claude’s wrist, pulling him upward, angling his face. Dimitri could forget, has forgotten, that Claude is shorter than him, nearly a whole head. He bends, shoulders slouching, pulling Claude close, allowing himself to be gripped, hair drifting on Claude’s cheeks. It’s familiar.

            This is so familiar.

            “Is this alright?” Dimitri swallows, feeling Claude’s finger bob against his throat. The question lingers in the air, waiting, even as Claude hums, eyes careful as they trace Dimitri’s face. They’ve softened, the sly grin on Claude’s face melted away to soft pink agape, just looking. Just holding Dimitri close.

            “Yeah,” Claude murmurs, “this is alright.”

            Kissing Claude is an oddly familiar sensation. Dimitri can—remember. He can know, flickering between old touches, old noises, old words. Visions, memories, truth that he had forgotten forced forward into his mind. The first night together, the second, the third, every day and every hour and every second, away yet together. Claude’s fingers tighten at his hair, his neck, close, so close, and then he’s away, pulling a soft noise from Dimitri as he attempts to follow.

            He should leave. He should leave, stumble backward, trip over his own feet to loosen his fingers from Claude, wander until cold air dulls the aching warmth pounding in his head. Dimitri should go, should section off his own area, blue and blue and blue stained red, not a strand of gold in his sea. Byleth must be waiting for them.

            Dimitri’s feet refuse to move. He cannot own the moon, the stars themselves.

            “Will you go—come to bed with me, Dima?”

            Dimitri can let them own him.



            The first three days Dimitri cannot recall if Claude had ever actually slept. Sure, they had laid together in bed, shoulders brushing under thin blankets, but Dimitri could not say for certain that the other had ever truly shut their eyes, let exhaustion sweep them under. He could not say that he had ever seen Claude relax against his side.

            He could not say it still, a week later, a pressure against his throat.

            Dimitri breaths, slow, shallow, suddenly conscious of the light casting across Claude’s cheeks, the hardening of youthful features in the moment of quiet. Years later, worn by war and grief, his sunny classmate—companion—fellow student, perhaps is the best term, is stricter now. Stronger now. Clever, all the same.

            His eyes are amber, caught by the moon.

            “Ghh… hah…” Funny, after years of wanting death, waiting for it, how it so easily falls into his lap. Claude rocks forward, thighs tight around Dimitri’s waist, the tensing of his muscles a reminder of the years apart. He was so small back at school. Then again, so was Dimitri.

            Claude is not so small now, the curves and dips of his face harshened by the stars highlighting the shape of his jawline, his lips, pressed thin. His arms are drawn up, high, hands clasped together over, around, Dimitri’s throat. In this quiet, Dimitri can barely hear his breaths, shallow, soft, so perfectly in time with his own.

            The pressure against his throat tightens. Perhaps some lifetime ago, Dimitri would thrash out, demanding, angry, yet now he can barely find the strength to move his limbs. Distantly, he recalls the times Claude had meandered into the gardens to emerge with various colorful concoctions and a mewling grin, dipping poisons and powders into other’s drinks. It would not be so unreasonable for Claude to devise something now.

            Dimitri may fall tonight, not in battle, but peacefully in a fit of sleep.

            “You’re smiling?” Honesty set bare. Claude’s fingers loosen, the palm of his hand pressed flat to Dimitri’s adam apple. It bobs under his touch, an audible swallow that does little to shake the spreading grin. He should resist. He should fight.

            Ah, but it is so much easier to let himself be killed.

            “You’re crazy,” Claude murmurs, ducking low. The loose strands of his hair dance upon Dimitri’s cheek, tickling, his eyes blank shadows searching. “I’m sleeping with a crazy person. What the hell.”

            “Kill me then.” Dimitri wheezes, oxygen filling his lungs, warmth and cold spearheading conflict in his mind. His chest shudders with every coughing breath, and though he can throw his neck back he finds himself rearing forward instead, cutting himself off against Claude’s fingers. Claude flinches back, legs tightening their hold.

            “You want to die that bad?” A whisper in the darkness.

            “Yes.” Dimitri hacks, shivering, the lids of his eye remarkably heavy.

            “Is that the truth?” He grins, truly, at that. What a ridiculous thought. As though war, this war, could be faced by any that fear death. By any who would be unable to embrace it truly, wrap themselves in red ribbon and dipped in the grasping black hands of once enemies. A silly question.

            “Yes,” Claude grinds his palm harsh and for a moment Dimitri feels the room spin, light, hazy, “I-I swore. We made a deal.”

            They did.

            The pressure relieves, air swirling back into Dimitri. He cannot help the bouncing of his chest, clench of his hands, as his throat scratches and burns from oxygen forcing its way into his lungs. He cannot quell the curve of his arms upwards, clawing at his own skin, leaving red lines across scarred skin. Hands, fingers, grasp at his wrists, tugging them away with a grunt, leaving Dimitri to stare upwards into narrowed stars.

            Eventually, the rise and fall of his chest slows, legs shivering from the discarding of the blanket that once laid over them, now somewhere behind Claude’s form, pressing Dimitri against the bed. He could attack Claude, perhaps, grasp his arms and force him back, crack his neck. He could kill him now, render him dead before a clever word can slip from his tongue, dancing around Dimitri’s head.

            “Hey.” Quiet, a dip in the bed as Claude shuffles forward, balancing on Dimitri’s chest. He rises, knees pressed to either side of Dimitri’s head, and he notes that Claude could kill him like this, perhaps, just puncturing his head with a dagger. Silly to imagine, given the war he’s been up against. But it’s Claude.

            It’s Claude.

            “Hello,” he responds. It comes out a dry croak. It may be the light, perhaps, that darkens Claude’s gaze.

            “Does teach know?” Dimitri bobs his head, lolling to the side.

            “No.” Yes. He doesn’t know, not really, the extend of knowledge that professor carries on their back. Surely it is an infinite lifetime’s worth of knowing, leading, always ensuring the survival of Dimitri and his allies even against the strongest foes, those who could have been his strongest allies. In the darkness, in the light, professor was there.

            Claude blocks the window now, the light nothing more than a glimmer outlining the shadows of his figure.

            “Dedue?” No. Yes. Dimitri shrugs, tensing as sore muscles protest the movement. His friend is no fool; it would be no surprise to discover Dedue’s extent of knowledge on Dimitri’s mind. Yet, some hopeless desire spins his head, makes him wonder if Dedue is unaware. If his thoughts can be unknown.

            If he can pass in peace, and leave Dedue behind a world of his own choosing.

            “Hey.” Fingers scratching along his scalp. Dimitri refocuses on Claude, on shadows, on light. He nods.

            “Will you kill me?” Request. Plead. In the quiet of the night, it is difficult to determine the difference. Dimitri steadies his gaze on the stars behind Claude, on the moon beaming in, its light cast across their forms, drawing long shadows tilt on the floor. Claude takes in a breath. He lets it out.

            His left hand grasps at Dimitri’s hair.

            “Do you want me to?”

            “Yes,” he breaths. It sounds like relief, fatigue, amusing. His lips quirk against his means, and then Claude is bending, bowing, hovering over him with glinting eyes.

            “Okay. Let’s make a deal: I’ll kill the great beast of fargheous after the war. But promise me,” his fingers trace the form of Dimitri’s face, slow, careful, the lightest itch of his nails gliding over bumps and ridges, “promise me, Dima. You can’t die to anyone else.”


            “You assume I will win against her.” Claude pauses, lips pursed a moment before dipping low, lower. Dimitri’s eye focuses on the curve of his jaw, the line of his nose, the shadow of his lip.

            “Won’t you?” His words are warm against Dimitri’s lips.

            It isn’t a kiss so much as a resting pressure, flat onto Dimitri. He stills, frozen, suddenly conscious of the cold air prickling at his skin, at the tense workings of his legs, free from imaginary binds. His hands shake, unsteady, rising to grasp at Claude’s wrists, his arms, his shoulders. Alive. Alive.

            “Deal.” Dimitri breaths, and then they are kissing, truly, a press by both sides. Claude sighs against him, into him, warm puffs of air that dip into and swirl in Dimitri’s lungs, forcing forward the chilled ashes of choked thoughts.

            He will die at Claude’s hands.


            Enbarr is but days away. Today’s bloody battle is just the beginnings of the end, the remaining troops of the Empire expendable for her. Just pawns in her game, just tools in her hand, just means to an end. Life, given up, to achieve a better world.

            A world they will not live to see come alive.

            Dimitri finds it a shame. He can understand Claude now, better, the regret that coats his form in war on either side, for deaths on either side. The lingering touches, the angry pauses. The hesitation to draw his bow.

            The fact that he did, the moment Dimitri had disappeared from his line of sight.

            “Dima.” His eyes refocus, sharp, onto the golden form in the blue. Claude’s eyes trail upward underneath purposefully lidded eyes, wetting his lip. Dimitri breathes, feeling for a moment inexplicably small in that gaze.

            “Claude.” He greets, throwing the stripped wooden sticks into the crackling fire. They’ve managed to stomach down another meal, even after resurfacing from a gory battle. Annette had taken a substantially smaller meal, unable to eat any remaining dried boar scraps. Felix had taken her share and given her his grains.

            Now, with the sun set and the moon risen, the fire dancing against Claude’s eyes is the little light left in their makeshift camp.

            “We should sleep soon. I think teach is making their rounds on us.” Claude’s voice ends in a chuckle, gesturing to the sweeping figure checking tents and coaxing sweet dreams onto their allies. Lindhart is already fast asleep, sharing a tent with Ashe. Caspar had refused to nap, swearing to take guard after realizing the extent of the battle he and Lindhart had been benched for. In all honesty, however, it was due to the limits of Claude’s schemes—their team was the maximum for a stealthy entrance and exit.

            It is admittedly nice to acknowledge Caspar’s determination to protect them after the conflict, for all his shouting in the beginning. It would be nice to have a night’s worth of rest. But, well.

            Dimitri can rest after the war.

            “I agree,” he nods. There is a moment’s pause before he sighs, drawing forward his hand to grasp at Claude’s wrist. A soft noise escapes Claude, his fingers tightening, before Dimitri tugs. His eyes dart downward, up, piercing stars in the sky.

            “Shall we go to bed?” The words are cotton in his mouth, flimsy and full of hot air. Yet, the relief in Claude’s shoulders is palpable, the grin cutting. He steps forward, watching Claude mirror his motions.

            “Lead the way.”


            In hindsight, Dimitri should have not been so surprised to see his deal fall through. Fevered, shivering behind blankets and scarves and his own cloak, the remainder of the Kingdom’s forces had been at their weakest when illness struck. For even their own leader to be knocked cold was a pathetic insult in and of itself. It had been the perfect time to strike.

            Claude had not killed him. He had nursed him instead, sitting by Dimitri’s side, waxing soft poems and whispering tales of a land afar, stories Dimitri had never heard before spun from a silver tongue. Even as cold darkness resurfaced time and time again, his eyes had always open to the murky white of sky, the golden dazzle of Claude’s presence.

            He was weak. Open. A burden onto himself.

            It was perhaps why anger had taken him so thoroughly when they next slept.

            “You should have killed me,” Dimitri had growled, a roar in a whisper echoing against Claude’s skin. Their camp mates were sleeping, sound, exhausted from the days of worry and want as fevers hit its peak, equally stressing for those ill and not. Sleep had been a welcome escape for Dimitri until red hands and chains had forced themselves tight onto his neck, and then he was awake, vicious, hungry.

            Easy, so incredibly easy, to grapple with Claude and force him onto his back, wheezing under Dimitri’s hands.

            “You had your chance,” he did, he does, so pliant and willing under Dimitri’s grasp, panting with every bob and shift of his throat crushed between strong fingers. “You should have taken it.”

            “What,” lies, lies, the grin on Claude’s face, so perfectly in place, so saccharine sweet, “will you kill me now?”

            “I should.” He can, he should, he would, raising Claude forward off the floor, holding him so precariously in his hands. He could smash Claude’s face against the dirt, shattering his nose, his skull, leaving behind nothing but a red stain of the Alliance leader. He could release Claude now, let him run, hunt him properly and skewer him through with Areadbhar. No tricks, no schemes, just the brutality of nature.

            He could squeeze, tight, at Claude’s throat, and watch the dawning of panic in his stars.

            “So,” Claude wheezes, his hands finally coming up to grasp at Dimitri’s wrist. He’s not pulling, or perhaps he is, simply too weak to do anything outside of circling Dimitri’s palms with his own. “Is that… it?”

            “Would you rather die in combat?” Dimitri could still release him, hunt him down, bow and crave and gnaw at the bloodied form of broken golden chains. Claude pants, shaking his head with a shiver, wincing at the tightening of Dimitri’s fingers against his throat.

            “If,” if, if, if, “I die… at least,” smiling, that same false nicety, as though Dimitri cannot feel the tremble of his jaw, hear the shaking edge of his words, “it’s to you.”

            Claude’s breath leaves him in a shallow cough, eyes fluttering. Dimitri is sure his mind is swimming, the sky as dizzying as the parting sea he’s seen himself night and night again, awake in the quiet. His body is limp, easy, quick to jostle and fall free as his head lolls back, baring the curve of his nape against Dimitri’s grip. He could squeeze, right now. He could shatter Claude’s collarbones, his neck, hold his fallen head. No blood. No guts. No red. It would be easy. It would be so incredibly easy.

            Yet, his fingers release. Claude falls to the ground, sputtering, wracking coughs and hasty inhales jostling his chest as his shoulders curl in, instinctive, grasping at his collar.

            Dimitri rolls back, off, grasping the blanket thrown to the side and tucking it upwards to Claude’s arms as the other’s choking slows to breathless wheezing, deep intakes of air that color his cheeks. His eyes flit opens again, tracing Dimitri’s face, vivid with life. Confusion, irritation, wonder.

            A tiny spark of hope.

            “You,” light, airy still, as though he had not just been forced down by Dimitri, “won’t kill me?” The toothy smile has returned onto his face, a jagged scar that twists in Dimitri’s gut. He should kill Claude, here, now, before anymore senseless nights continues. He should rectify his mistakes, his callings, the rise of his own ineptitudes.

            Dimitri cannot kill Claude, cannot force his fingers to close that final gap, cannot bring about the force of the animalistic fury that so otherwise occupies his body. He cannot, the same as Claude cannot, glowing amber and gold in the night, a pressure resting flush to his form.

            He can’t, now, not when he could have killed Claude those days ago cornered against the Empire. He cannot when Claude had turned to him, lazy, false, with the brightest sparkling of hope in his eyes. He cannot when Claude had smiled brighter than the moon and the stars and the sun, basking in their light, generating his own, a single strand of good and hope and life in the senseless battleground Fodlan has taken to calling war, no more than deafening screams and spilling of blood.

            “I can’t,” Dimitri admits, because it is true, because he has sworn to be true, because even if Claude had not asked him to he does not think he could muster so much a lie to a star. “I can’t, and I won’t. Not you.”

            It is relief that combs his fingers through Claude’s hair, noting the thicker locks, the smooth texture under his thumb. Claude hums, turning to him, eyes, bright eyes, brighter than any gemstone glistening on any ring, locking onto his face.

            “You trust me too much. Who’s to say I’m not plotting your death way in the future?” The words would perhaps be crueler if his voice were not still winded, sore. Perhaps if Claude’s eyes were not guiding lights, his lips slipping into something more genuine.

            “Then I will die by your hands, and be happier for it.”

            “That’s kind of cruel, don’t you think? How do you expect me to operate under all that pressure?” It’s laughter, it’s taunting, it’s a sharp of genuine in the daggers Claude takes to call words. Claude’s hands trail upward, drawing circles onto Dimitri’s wrist, pulling Dimitri downwards.

            “I trust you.” He’s sworn to be true, and the words come as easy as air.

            “I should not, perhaps, but I do. I trust you, with my people, with my battles, with,” he pauses, sliding Claude’s hands upward to properly grasp at his shoulders, drawing in a shuddering breath as his head comes down to properly rest against Claude’s nape, “my life. My future. Perhaps Fodlan itself.” Admiration for love, for life, for people of all shapes and sizes and colors, runs through Claude as easily as air. The pressures, the weight, of being king is not a curse Dimitri would wish upon anyone sane.

            But here, clasped hand to throat and back, he cannot properly say that Claude’s mind is not as hazy as his own.

            “You would make a good king.” Truth.

            Claude stills under him, mouth agape, properly open, brows drawn up. His hands curl into Dimitri’s shoulders, gripping tense for a moment, before he’s breathing, slow, unsteady, a faltering to his jaw working on air.

            “You’d make a king prisoner?” Awkward, hazy, stilted words as though they are forced unfamiliar on Claude’s tongue. His hand comes around properly to hook at Dimitri’s neck, pulling, pulling, until they are flush, head to head, eyes to eyes. Warm breath murmured onto his lips. “If I were—If I were a king, wouldn’t it be better for you to kill me?”

            Better for Fodlan, perhaps. Better for the Kingdom, certainly, for the peace of minds of his allies, for the chance of ruling without fear of future conquests, future war. Better, maybe, in a world where Dimitri had lived a life without professor’s aid, without the memory of Rodrigue holding his arm. Better, perhaps, in a world where he had never met Claude five years ago, scalding him with his presence.

            “No,” Dimitri breathes, his eyes falling shut by the glow of Claude’s eyes, his face, his very life burning in his veins. “No.”

            He has lived too long in a world with starless skies. It is luck, it is fate, it is perhaps the kind interference of the goddess herself that brings Dimitri this one, brighter than all the rest, pulsing golden warmth into his flesh.

            He cannot let this one go.


            It is perhaps embarrassingly easy for Claude to wrangle him into the barebones of a tent, flimsy worn sheets thrown over their bearings. The proper tent fabrics were torn apart and resewn as hoods and covers for their crew after the flood of illnesses that took them earlier last month, and now with Enbarr dawning in the far corner of Dimitri’s eye, he cannot say that the promise of proper warmth and rest does not tempt him so.

            He is satisfied here, two warm hands coming around his waist, a gentle release of air onto his nape.

            “Do you want this?” Dimitri asks, because he has not before, not remembered to, lost in himself on a shrinking island in a sea of red. He asks because he has forgotten to, time, and time, and time again, even as Claude has given him a collar and chain and allowed him to tie a star to his knees. He asks because he wants to, and that is what Claude whispers to him when the night is fading and the stars dim under the rising sun.

            He asks because he wants Claude to stay, here, and he wants Claude to want that too.

            “What do you think?” Claude chuckles, easy, teasing, rocking onto his heels and pulling Dimitri along with him. Dimitri stumbles with his movements, following his rhythm. Submission. Surrender.

            Claude could not move him, could not pull him down and burn him inside out, if Dimitri did not want him to.

            “I wouldn’t know,” honest; “tell me. Do you want this?”

            Claude pauses, buried against Dimitri’s back, and then his hands are looping around the fur on his shoulder, pulling it loose. Dimitri watches, turning a half step as Claude drags the pelt over his own shoulders, clasping it in the front. It is large, hilariously oversized even, drowning out his form with ease. Even still, he is an easy step back in, brushing at Dimitri’s undershirt, tipping his head up.

            “What do you think?” Claude repeats, swallowing up Dimitri’s reply with the press of lips onto his mouth.

            Dimitri sighs, relenting, needing, pressing back to Claude and sliding his hands downwards to cup at his waist, tug Claude upwards onto his toes so that he can better press his cheek to Claude’s. He plants gentle kisses at the curve of Claude’s jaw, his cheeks, his eyelids, every press bringing his shoulders closer downward, Claude further upward, until he’s certain that he’s pulled Claude nearly off the floor.

            “Wait.” Dimitri meets leather for a moment, and he huffs. Claude quirks an eyebrow at him, amusement playing at his lips, though there is little denying the thrumming of his heart against Dimitri’s, the pretty flush of pink on his cheeks. Dimitri releases, letting Claude stumble a step back, biting at his lip.

            “Let me undress.” Ah. Dimitri freezes, his fingers curling, unfurling, as the words settle. Dimitri’s fur falls to the floor, pooling at Claude’s legs, as he shrugs off his shirt, his gloves, the golden sash at his waist. Dimitri swallows, every tantalizing centimeter of skin revealed with the movements of Claude’s arms, the muscles in his arm and back pulling, retracting, then flexing again. His torso is marred with scars and marks, most from war, though the fresh, thin red ones Dimitri can recognize as his own work. He realizes, a moment too slow, that Claude’s grinning at him, light flickering in his eyes.

            “Want to take this off of me?” This being the elastic band Claude snaps back onto his waist, pants shifting in the movement. Dimitri bobs his head, certain that his face is red, warm, breath uneven as Claude steps close again, placing Dimitri’s hands on his waist. This close, Dimitri fails to resist, grasping at Claude’s skin and pulling him back up, growling into his mouth.

            It’s a relief to grasp at Claude, to bite at his lips and pull soft whines from that mouth. Dimitri pulls, tightens, holds, taking Claude stumbling forward off the floor into his arms, balancing straight to gnaw that his bottom lip. Claude moans into his mouth, allowing, his fingers grinding into Dimitri’s hair and tugging him downward, relishing control for just a moment as Dimitri works his jaw, tongue pressing into his mouth.

            He learned this. He learned this from Claude, nights and nights and nights ago, in a memory he’s long since forgotten and remembered again. Claude had taken his face in his hands and whispered how to kiss, how to nibble at one’s lips and press tongue together, how to tease and taunt with no words at all. Dimitri groans as Claude pulls at his head again, angling him for better entry, and when Dimitri pulls away he can see the strings of spit between their mouths dragging downward to splatter at Claude’s chin.

            It’s a dizzily familiar sight, images of spit and sweat and cum smeared on Claude’s skin, and Dimitri takes in a ragged breath before hooking Claude upwards yet again, panting into his mouth.

            “Put your spell on me,” he wheezes, because he wants, he needs. The room spins unsteady, tension coiling in his gut, and his hands tremble as they hook back into Claude’s pants, tugging insistently. Claude is still under his touch, chest falling with shallow breaths, and Dimitri hisses when Claude pulls sharp at his hair, hazy green eyes shining through. “Please. I want it.”

            Claude bends back into his arms, looking, searching, and this close Dimitri can see himself in Claude’s eyes. Red. Wanting. Needing. He feels like a beast.

            He is one, will be one: all Claude has to do is ask.

            “Come on, then, Dima,” Claude murmurs, and it works, it works, the room glowing and fading and twisting into itself, a blanket of warmth flooding Dimitri’s body, holding him close. It’s Claude, Claude’s arms, his hands, his legs, sliding into Dimitri, and when his lips part to speak Dimitri trembles.

            “Let’s go to bed.” It may be the ground that shakes, his legs suddenly both heavy and loose at once. Dimitri sighs against Claude, into Claude, parting his mouth to dig into swollen lips, biting down. Claude moans against him, pressing back, kissing at his chin, his cheeks, tracing the shape of his ears before pulling him low, downwards, letting Dimitri dig his teeth into the soft muscle along Claude’s shoulders.

            “Come, Dima,” he murmurs, and even with his eyes focused on the growing red at Claude’s neck, his throat, eyes drinking in the nudity presented to him, Dimitri can hear the smile playing at Claude’s lips, “let’s go to bed. Actual bed.” He relents, dragging his teeth off and kissing at the sore spots he’s created, the red indents contrast to Claude’s skin. Some part of him wants to grab at Claude and hoist him up and bite at him hard, harder, tearing skin and sucking at the scars, but a greater part of him wishes to obey.

            Dimitri allows himself to be led to the laid out furs, pushed against the fibers. Here, entangled with Claude, Dimitri moans, kissing at the bare skin and trembling from the skimming of Claude’s nails on him, tugging his shirt upward. Warm, wanting, wanted. Claude tugs his shirt upward, messing with his hair and chuckling, hot breaths hitting Dimitri’s cheeks. He looks, this close under their fabric, more vivid than any skies Dimitri can recall.

            “I want to kiss you.” It is the spell that loosens his tongue, makes him press insistently at Claude’s skin. Dimitri can hear the laughter, feel the rumbling of Claude flush to his skin, pressing nips and bites to his scars, green eyes drinking him in. Dimitri is warm, warmer, and he is unable to quell his shivering as he hauls Claude a breath closer.

            “Then kiss me.” Claude grins, the flash of his teeth unfairly arousing. Dimitri swallows, pressing upward, and then they’re kissing, truly, gentle presses that grow insistent as they swallow each other’s groans, biting into sore lips, licking at the wounds they cause. Dimitri chases every sigh, every pant, biting and gnawing and needing and wanting, wanting to trace the shell of Claude’s ear, wanting to pull at his cheek, wanting to leave a trail of marks from his jaw to this collarbones, following the line of spit between their lips. Claude moans, a hand coming up to tug roughly at Dimitri’s hair, and though Dimitri is strong, so effortless powerful, he lets himself be stilled. Let’s himself be hauled upward, staring at the flush of pink descending from Claude’s head down.

            “Why—why did we stop?” Uncertainty flicks at his insides, even as warmth flushes him fully, the press of Claude’s fingers to his shoulders and dragging downward. Claude smiles, beautiful, beautiful, and pushes Dimitri to the side, rolling away.

            “We’re going to need some oil.” Ah. Dimitri bites down a whine from the sudden chill of air where Claude once was. He is back in a second, a semi-filled vial in hand, and the vivid recall of times spent embraced before makes Dimitri’s hair prickle. Claude must notice, for he shakes his head and laughs. “Don’t worry so much. We’re not going to go all the way.” His smile dims for a moment, pressing a kiss to Dimitri’s cheek, “Unless you want to?”

            Dimitri returns the kiss. He hungers, he aches, distantly recalling blurred images of Claude on top of him, broken moans murmured against his skin, the temptation of pulling foggy memories into sudden clarity tempting. Yet, letting Claude nuzzle at his collar, panting while teeth dig into his flesh, watching his own blood spill, he finds that he cannot muster up the spirit to protest. The desire to say no.

            Spellbound as he is, his wants line up remarkably well with Claude’s own.

            “I trust you,” Dimitri remembers. Claude pauses, momentarily surprise pulling his eyes wide, before ducking his head against Dimitri’s nape, biting harshly. Dimitri groans, hands rubbing at Claude’s back, careful to not break skin. Claude hums, dragging his tongue along the fresh wound. This close, Dimitri can see the vivid red staining his cheeks.

            They kiss, again, just once before Claude slides down, downward, his hands stroking long lines at Dimitri’s sides before hooking Dimitri’s own hand on the waistband of his trousers. Dimitri sputters, eyes flickering between his hand and Claude’s grin.

            “Dima,” oh, goddess, how the world manages to quiver under those words, “come on. Take me to bed.”

            Fresh warmth bubbles at Dimitri’s skin, his eyes wide as Claude tugs at his wrist, revealing his cock. He’s caught, taught, tied tight in his own desires, bound ever tighter in Claude’s words, his directions, the sensation of Claude against his fingers. Claude brings Dimitri’s hand to his cock, just running his fingers along his head, the vibration of his moan a greater turn on than any other sensation. His pants feel remarkably tight, straining at the weight of Claude pressed to his hips.

            Then Claude is pulling away, uncapping the bottle, and Dimitri swallows.

            “Claude,” he receives a hum to his words, the wet sound of oil splattering onto Claude’s ass, shiny, “Claude. Claude, please.”

            “Please what?” Desire runs hot in Dimitri’s mind at the wicked grin crooked his way, Claude rubbing small circles of oil along his hips. His hands tremble, caught in nothing, caught in everything, the spell of words encircling his limbs and keeping him still.

            “Please, let me touch you.” Inexplicably, the weight along his arms come free, Dimitri surging forward to pull Claude flush again, moaning as their cocks rub. His pants are tight, too tight, but he finds it impossible to focus on the ache when he can grab at Claude’s hair, his back, claw new lines along marked skin and lick at brown nipples. Claude jerks, loud pants pressed into the crown of Dimitri’s hair, his arms curling around to scratch at Dimitri’s arms, his shoulders, dipping down his back to leave sharp red lines.

            “You can do whatever you want, Dima. All you have to do is ask.” Familiar, as familiar as the overspilling heat in Dimitri’s gut, as familiar as the moans buried into his skin, as familiar as the intent of Claude flush against him. Dimitri groans, low, hazy, recapturing Claude’s lips with ferocious need.

            “Please,” he pants, tugging Claude closer, fingers tweaking at his chest, “I want,” he bites at Claude’s jaw, dragging his hands downward along Claude’s stomach, pressing at his abs, “you.” Dimitri heaves in a shaky breath, finally, finally, gripping at his own trousers and tugging the string loose, kicking them off. He’s achingly hard, wet with precum smeared to his stomach. “Can I have that?”

            “Will you entrap me again?” It’s pleading, begging, restraints that once held tight to his jaw loosened from the hazy warmth of being here, under Claude, flush to Claude, eating up moans and whines and pants and having his own swallowed down by pink lips. Claude grinds as Dimitri groans, his head falling back at the sensation of their dicks rubbing, a hand coming around to stroke at their lengths.

            “Yeah,” Claude pants, breathes, sighs into Dimitri’s mouth. “Yeah. Dima.” It’s hard to focus on him when Claude’s more radiant than the moon, sweat and spit making his cheeks slippery, the catch of his teeth on Dimitri’s skin. Dimitri finds his eyes flutter, overwhelmed as another groan is forced from his mouth, an equally shaky one spilling forth from Claude.

            Dimitri whines when Claude pulls back, drool hitting his cheek. Careful fingers entrap his wrists, pulling his arms away from Claude’s back as he readjusts, and then Dimitri is groaning again at the sensation of Claude grinding his ass against his dick, soft pressure enveloping. Dimitri gasps, hands twisting in place, waiting. Wanting.

            “Go ahead.” It’s a promise, a swear, a twinkle of desire and want and truthfulness from Claude, relaxing his grip around Dimitri. “Take me to bed.”

            It should be unlawful for how powerful the words are. Dimitri’s head spins, forcing his hands forward to claw at Claude’s back, dragging him close against the fur. His hips thrust forward without abandon, heat and want and need suddenly alight under his skin, the gasps and shakes of Claude against his ear only spurring on his movements. Dimitri wants, and he wants, and he wants, and through all the blur he can see the crook of Claude’s lips, the glimmer of his eyes.

            Dimitri groans, thrusting against the curve of Claude’s ass, gasping as hands surge upward to grasp at his throat, squeezing. His head spins, dizzy, as Claude recaptures his lips, swallowing down his pants and pressing hard, harder, cutting his breathes short. He’s been here. He’s known this.

            “Claude.” His dick stutters, catching along Claude’s rim and pulling a hot groan against his teeth, clicking, his jaw shaking with shallow breaths. He’s burning up, the room spinning around them, unable to focus on anything but the wet sounds of his cock against Claude’s skin, wet by precum and oil, the bright sparkle in Claude’s eye caught by the shadows of his hair, brushing along Dimitri’s skin. “Claude. Claude.”

            “Yeah?” Claude’s voice is a whisper, teeth catching Dimitri’s top lip, pulling, the snap of his skin swimming in his head. Dimitri’s asked for this. He knows, memories bubbling to the surface, of grasping Claude and growling and hissing and pleading. He knows, because the words resurface again and again, tendrils of desire that sink into his skin and demand to be fed. He knows, because Claude had smiled while spitting his own words back, silent anger prickling at his skin.

            “Do you want me to kill you?” He had asked, and Dimitri had answered yes.

            His legs shake as his fingers claw at Claude’s hips, his own thrusts increasing in speed. The bounce of Claude’s dick against his stomach smears precum onto old scars, sighs and whines panted into Dimitri. He grunts, baring his neck and squeezing his eyes tight as pleasure mounts, hips unsteady as unshed tears begin to build in his eyes, mind woozy. He wants this. He wants this.

            “You killed someone for me.” Dimitri doesn’t mean to speak the words, yet they burst out in a series of coughs and gags as the pressure around his neck goes slack. He wheezes, curling upward, as the tears finally fall, every gasp forcing his hips to stutter.  Cool oxygen fills his lungs, forcing them to expand with every wheeze; Dimitri finds himself curling, burying his face into Claude’s chest, choking pants petering off.

            A hand presses against his head, still, before combing downward. It’s the steadying hold Dimitri needs, his gasping slowing to match his thrusts. When he manages to turn his face upward, it’s Claude’s green eyes that he locks in on. That he always focuses on.

            He wants this.

            “I did,” Claude admits, light, easy, pressing a kiss to Dimitri’s head. He shifts upward, letting Dimitri’s hands grasp at his hips, groaning at the wet feeling of his cock smearing the oil along his skin. “What—what about it?” His words break on a gasp, fingers curled tight as they tug at blonde locks. Beading sweat falls onto Dimitri’s face,

            Claude looks.

            Claude looks beautiful.

            “I’m happy,” Dimitri breathes, pulling Claude close to kiss again. Gentle, wary, a brushing of their lips before angling his face close, the clacking of their teeth a note against the delicious noises of their hips together. His hand skims over the head of Claude’s dick earning him another gasp into his mouth, arms that cross over his neck, the tickling of Claude’s hair on his skin. “Thank you.”

            “Yeah?” Hush. Quiet, even as boiling heat makes Dimitri clench tight at Claude’s back, even as his teeth are bared just a moment longer. Claude purrs, a low rumble of his chest, fingers coming up to angle Dimitri’s face close. Closer. He can drown in those sparkling eyes. “I bet you’re—hah,” his voice breaks on a moan, eyes fluttering when Dimitri flattens his palm along his shaft, thrusts speeding up once more, “I b-bet, you’re just happy to, to fuck me. Letting me,” his voice dips, quiet, more breath than words, and then Dimitri is gasping as Claude drags his tongue along his nape, teeth skimming the surface. “Take you to bed.”

            Dimitri’s shout is swallowed by Claude, and then he’s cumming, pushed to the edge and beyond. His hips continue to thrust along Claude’s curve, spilling onto his back, along his leg, smearing the ground. Dimitri whines, high, reedy, as Claude fists his hands back into his hair, pulling his head back to bite at the reddened skin. The marks of his choking remain there, angry red, and Dimitri groans when Claude licks and kisses at his sensitive skin.

            The lights seem to dawn and dim around Dimitri as the pleasure recedes, and he’s able to crack open his eyes again. His throat croaks open, blurry yellows and blues finding their place before he can refocus on the low panting still in the room, wet noises under his hand. Claude thrusts once more along his stomach, arms shaking as they palm his dick, rutting onto Dimitri in unsteady short bursts. He’s panting, whining low and greedy, and when his eyes lock onto Dimitri’s a crooked smirk takes his face.

            “L-like, the view?” Dimitri nods, swallowing. He does, very much so, exhausted as his limbs are. Claude squeezes his eyes shut as a moan forces its way upwards, tipping his head back and arching with more flexibility than Dimitri could ever muster.

            “Yes,” he answers. It must be unfair how quickly his heart beats when Claude’s eyes flutter back open, unfocused, overwhelmed with pleasure. “I do.” It’s instinct, desire, raw want that throws Dimitri’s arm out to grasp at Claude’s waist and toss him against the floor, a hand twisting at his cock as Dimitri rocks his thigh against him. Claude whines, loud, high, eyes blown wide as Dimitri pants, drool falling from his mouth to hit at Claude’s skin.

            “Let me take you.” Dimitri swears, and Claude cums onto him like that, bowed in half and shaking violently as cum hits Dimitri’s stomach, mixing with his own release. His fingers claw crescent moons into Dimitri’s flesh as tremors wrack his form, before Claude surges upward those final centimeters to bite at Dimitri again, spit spilling onto his chin. Dimitri follows him downward, bending Claude impossibly further, licking and gnawing at his lips and groaning when Claude slides his tongue along Dimitri’s teeth.

            Claude grows slack in his grip, muscles relenting as his legs slide off his sides, falling to the floor with a dull thump. Dimitri straightens, bowing back, as Claude’s panting comes to a slow, his eyes shut a moment longer before coming back up to Dimitri’s face. Something akin to a smile flicker on his face, eyes lidded a burning amber, before he huffs and rolls to his side, reaching out for fabric scraps.

            “I think we stained your fur.” It’s true. Dimitri winces at the matted spots where sweat and cum and spit had merged, darkened sticky areas along the bottom half. Claude wipes at the areas, though Dimitri has little hope that it can be redeemed. He slides a hand along Claude’s back instead, earning him a stifled squeak, pulling Claude back down with him onto the blankets.

            “Leave it,” Dimitri murmurs. This close, sticky and warm and satisfied, he’s unable to quell the thudding of his heart, the desire to kiss at sweet skin. Claude hums when Dimitri presses his lips at his cheek, then his nose, his eyes, his forehead, before giddy giggles burst forward. Dimitri raises an eyebrow, ducking away to stare at Claude’s grinning face a moment before his lips are recaptured, the curve of Claude’s smile delightful on his skin.

            Minutes pass like that, old memories renewed by fresh sparks and gentle touches, fingers entangling as they roll on dirtied fur and mats, getting their already tangled hair even further so. Dimitri cannot remember how he’d ever woken up before and failed to realize the depth of dirt in his hair, the marks on his skin, least of all the lingering glee that swirls in his body with every kiss Claude returns. They’re lost in each other, tangled limbs, breathing synced, so much so that for a moment Dimitri thinks he could close his eyes and wake up as one.

            He’s been here before, warm and soft and wanting. A whine slips from him when Claude pulls away, eyes lidding, mouth curved open. His words are heavy in the quiet.

            “Do you want to forget?”

            For a moment, for one aching millisecond of a moment, Dimitri finds himself shaken by the heavy déjà vu that overcomes him. He’s been here, the words at the tip of his tongue over and over again, heavy words that have sunk to the bottom of his jaw and never floated back up. Claude smiles at him, though it grows pinched every dawning second, the slow tensing of his hand. He’s hoping, Dimitri realizes.

            Claude wanted this too.

            “No,” he swears, true, sworn to be true, to himself and to his allies and to the beginning of truth coloring Claude’s eyes, his smile, the twitching of his lips against his cheeks. No, because the relief that shakes his body is stronger than his fear, no because it is so much easier to let go of guilt upon the realization that he was never unwanted to begin with. No, because it makes Claude happy, and because Dimitri has begun to realize that his eyes have strayed to Claude, his smile, his eyes, the stars twinkling in his hair.

            “No. I want to remember.” It feels like forgiveness, the hum of Claude pressing their lips together, a slow pressure that warms Dimitri better than any of their blankets, his furs, piled high at night. He lets Claude lead him through their tent, rolling away their placemats and retrieving a proper washcloth to wipe at their abdomens. His fur is forgotten on the ground, unable to be salvaged, and they lay back down on it when clean.

            It is the first peaceful sleep Dimitri can recall in five years past.


            Cold wracks Dimitri’s body still, the remnants of his fever gone, but there’s no denying the natural frigid temperatures of Fodlan. He can hardly imagine how Claude is taking it. Perhaps that’s why he so adamantly takes Dimitri’s furs, even as they share the room together, staring at the frozen air outside. Dimitri’s chest rises and falls as sleep climbs upward. His arm twitches as Claude sighs into the crook of his neck, pressed together under their blanket.

            “It’s war,” Dimitri whispered. Truth.

            “It’s war,” Claude agreed, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t hope for a brighter future. Isn’t that why we’re here?” Empty promises, empty words. Yet. Staring into his eyes, tracing the curve of his body, Dimitri cannot find a stomach for cruelty. He nods, tongue heavy.

            “That’s why you’re here,” he manages. Claude blinks, surprise, true emotion, shining through his eyes a moment before replaced by a waggling of his brows, a cheeky glint to his grin.

            “Yeah? You mean you didn’t take me prisoner just to be pretty?”

            “You’re not a prisoner. I cannot keep you. If this place,” his hands gesture to their bedding, the floor, himself, the skies arching above over their heads, “no longer interests you, then leave. Leave, before you too are killed by my side.”

            Claude hums, laughs. Fake, real, a dizzying falseness that Dimitri’s never been able to puncture. He wonders, even now, how it would have been like to have shared a room together in the monastery, to sit in one class. Surely it would have been simpler then, when Claude’s taunting words would have been nothing more than passing remarks, light glances.

            Now, his weight a comfort in Dimitri’s hands, his lap, he is more reluctant to let them pass.

            “It’s a little too late to say that, don’t you think? I’m already here, after all.” Claude shifts, close, closer still, crooking his face to rest in Dimitri’s nape. “I’ve been chained to you this whole time; don’t you think?” He doesn’t. He had no intentions of chaining Claude down.

            It’s a lie, even in his own mind, and he doesn’t dare allow the words to surface. Dimitri glances over to Claude, shifting him closer, sighing.

            “If I win this war, kill me.” Familiar words, set alight again. He wonders, every now and then, about how comforting they are. How comforting they could be. How wonderful, really, it would be to have his torment cut short, his collar loosened.

            He lives, now, for Rodrigue. For his allies who have died, who will die, who stand tall still by his side despite the red footprints he leaves behind, bleeding into the dirt.

            Claude eyes him, simple, easy. “Sure,” he agrees. Dimitri can almost picture the dagger on his throat. “When we win, I will kill the beast of the Kingdom.” Quick, so swift Dimitri can hardly register, Claude pulls his collar downward, teeth scraping onto his skin. He grunts, hisses, eying his companion’s slide upwards, mouth crooked.

            “For now, how about we go to bed?”

            Dimitri forgets. Dimitri forgets, the nights, the days, the wandering moments between when Claude whispers loose words into his ears, sweet coaxing and praises that wax hazy wonder inside the beast’s head. Dimitri forgets, because he wants to, because Claude wants him to.

            Because it’s easier to let Claude pull him forward, the sound of their teeth clinking in the night, staring into stars burnt into his eyes.

            “Are you going to command me?” he murmurs, familiar, so familiar, a vapid feeling of déjà vu in the spreading warmth. Claude smiles into his kiss.

            “Only,” he promises, “if you want.”

            And that is it, isn’t it? Dimitri sighs, letting his limbs fall back, letting familiar dizziness conquer his mind. Edelgard’s head. Fodlan. The end of the war. Vengeance, properly, for those he had lost. Love, and care, and acknowledgement, for those he has.

            What he wants. What Dimitri wants.

            “Yes,” he murmurs, and for a moment he sees them then, five years past, Edelgard and Claude and Dimitri in the garden, speaking, laughing, for some moment children rather than weapons. Yes, he thinks, imagining silver crafted daggers and brown locks and embroidered fabric, wyverns and pegasi and horses, people riding them and speaking of them, the tinkling notes of a time long ago. Yes, he knows, biting into Claude’s lips and letting himself pant.

            “Come on, Dima,” Claude whispers, warm, familiar, alive and present on Dimitri’s body, “don’t you trust me?” Teasing. Light.


            “With my life,” he swears. The world crumples in his arms. He will forget that night, and remember the next, and push Claude from his room and declare himself better off alone. He will stand tall in battle and get pushed down regardless, shoved again, and again, and it will be a lone golden arrow that cuts forward his path, his single star shining brighter than any spell, bolder than any splash of red. He will bound and be bound, kill and be killed, rebuilt again and again by wandering fingers and sweet words.

            It’s the cruelty of life.

            Here, in this moment, at least Dimitri can feel alive.


            Dawn will not be kind to Enbarr. The Kingdom’s army has spent the morning preparing, eating their fill of dried meats and fruits and buttery sauces piled high on grains. Byleth is perhaps the best prepared of them all, holding their sword high as natural commands fall from their mouth, directing. Caspar refused to be let out, demanding to speak with Hubert before all is lost, though Lindhart had simply shook his head and said that there would be little point. There’s something he knows, hidden in the folds of his eyes. Secrets yet to be spilled.

            Today, however, is not the day for chasing secrets. It’s the spilling of red, red, blood and fury and remnants of the beast inside that Dimitri plans to fulfill his afternoon. Sylvain and Ingrid had non-discreetly dragged Felix away from his tent this morning, though it was of little matter since Dedue had come by to speak about their plans. Ashe and Mercedes had cooked their meal together, and it is Annette now who cheers on the final soldiers with grim reality.

            Claude jostles the strap by Dimitri’s side, a spare iron lance that he’s taken to using alongside Areadbhar. His own bow is slung casually along his side, and though he angles his back away from Dimitri’s sight, the sagging of his quiver is proof enough that he’s armed for combat. It will be the first that he will stand by Dimitri, near the front lines.

            Fitting. It’s the first morning Dimitri had woken up refreshed, and remembered the reason why.

            “You ready for today?” It’s meant to be cheeky, perhaps, but pressed so close together Dimitri cannot miss the hitch in Claude’s voice, the aversion of his eyes. Enbarr means Edelgard, the end of their war, and their deal with it. Enbarr will mean the end of them.

            It was, once, meant to be Dimitri’s final resting place.

            He doesn’t think Claude would allow him that. Funnily enough, Dimitri finds that the thought doesn’t bother him. Not anymore.

            Not with Claude’s fingers entangled in his own, squished in their sides behind his armor.

            “No,” he says, honest, always. “I will never be ready.”

            Byleth shouts something, the sound of his army alive around him. Troops from every corner of the Kingdom had come to rally their king in one final fight, and Dimitri swallows, squeezing Claude’s fingers in his own. Every second ticking by is another reminder of what he’s come for. What he’s here to do.


            Dimitri turns in place. Claude slides in close, eyes wandering over the people armed in the camp. Dimitri can nearly see the cogs working in his head, the numbers and schemes sparking to life. There is so much there, inside his eyes.

            Then they rise, locking onto Dimitri’s own, a smile curved on Claude’s face.

            “We made a deal, remember? No unnecessary deaths.” Dimitri nods, the weight of Areadbhar heavy in his hands. Claude traces the length of his spear with a hand, brows pinched, before glancing back at Dimitri.

            “I remember,” Dimitri replies. The yelling grows louder around them, no doubt rallying for red. They await their leader. Dimitri releases Claude’s hand, taking a step back, for a moment missing the weight of his fur on his back. Without it, he feels—smaller. Vulnerable.

            Reflected in Claude’s eyes.

            “Don’t die out there.”

            It must be an accident, Dimitri thinks, a slip of the tongue. It certainly wouldn’t be a string of words Claude would have delivered to him on another day, facing another battle. There’s never been the assumption he wouldn’t make it out alive. Never, until he almost had not, an arrow freeing him from invisible chains.

            Claude stands there still, a step back, then another, the rowdy chants of Dimitri’s army growing with every passing second. He’s receding, passing back, and even so, there’s a sad tinge to the smile on his face, the casual lid of his eyes. His arms swing by his side, easy, and letting himself slide away. Easy. Loose. The moment before he disappears, his eyes catch Dimitri’s once more, blinding bright.

            The words thrum in Dimitri’s head, louder than any other.

            He’s bound Claude, all those nights ago, with words and blood and the hard grasp of his hand on soft flesh. He’s been bound himself, perhaps years past, the first that he had realized how vivid green could be. Even as time has passed, even as his titles have changed, Dimitri stands tall, knowing the taste of dizzying words on his skin. Knowing that he wants them, knowing that he can have them.

            A king. A beast. A lover, now.

            “With this strength, let us protect them all. Today, we take Enbarr!”

            Dimitri must live. There is someone waiting for him to return.