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eemcintyre · 5 months ago

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Reunion (Terry Silver)

TW- just a general warning for sex-ish things, lowkey body worship; nothing crazy kinky like some of my other content. Very tender and intimate vibes and yeah I got emotional writing it

Summary- You and Terry spend a night together in the bath after a long time apart.

Did I manage to publish the first post-CK Part 2 Terry Silver bathtub fic?? I may make some minor changes to this in the future, but I hope y'all enjoy <3

Y/N sunk into the foamy water and onto Terry’s lap, settling into his arms. The air around them was heavy with the steam of the bath, the sweet scent of soap and the lit candles dotted around the perimeter of the room, and the smoke smoldering from Terry’s cigar, resting in a nearby ashtray.

After a very stressful and busy few weeks, during which they’d seen a lot less of each other than usual, this was an attempt to make up for it. Both of their schedules had been cleared, starting with the current Friday evening, and extending through the weekend.

It was almost overwhelming to be in his arms again, and it was a relief for him to be able to hold her. For a while, neither one of them said anything, apart from Terry checking with Y/N that the water wasn’t too hot. Intermittently sipping from the drinks Terry had ordered for them, they merely studied each other, as if getting reacquainted, mutually entranced by the way the dim and flickering lighting of the room bounced off the exposed surfaces of the water and reflected patterns on their skin.

Y/N reached out a hand to cradle the side of Terry’s face, and their eyes met as he placed his own hand over hers, expression stoic, but melting into her gentle touch. She toyed almost shyly with the charm at the end of his chain necklace, ghosting her fingertips over his firm chest and the shimmery dusting of white hair.

Most of the time, Terry was not opposed to (and actively encouraged) drawing out the tension and elaborate foreplay, but tonight he needed Y/N as close as he could get her and now. Terry was almost harsh as he took the sides of her face in both his hands, pulling her to him in a passionate kiss. He dove hungrily into her mouth with his tongue, removing his grip on her face to pull her flush against him.

“I go crazy when you’re not around, sweet girl,” he murmured against her ear. As she gasped for air, he realized he’d hardly let her breathe between kisses.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, figuring he’d let her catch her breath while he laved kisses and bites down her neck and collarbone- although it merely took her breath away in a different manner. He froze, awaiting her reply. He needed to hear her say it. “Tell me that you missed me.”

She grinned sweetly, giggling in bemusement. “How couldn’t I, you fool?”

Anyone else spoke like that to him and they would catch hands- knowing this, she only abused the power and teased him occasionally. But, in this particular instance, she could see that this was no teasing matter and that his hunger for her to fulfill his request remained unabated.

She pressed her lips to his gently. “I missed you.”

She kissed one side of his face- “I missed you,” and then the other. “I missed you.”

She kissed the tip of his chin. “I missed you.”

She stretched to brush his forehead with her lips. “I missed you.”

No one had ever treated Terry so softly before- the sensation was so foreign and intense that it was almost painful, churning in the pit of his stomach, mixed with the alternately familiar pulse of desire.

The thoughtful silence was interrupted by the turning of the bathroom doorknob as one of the home’s many employees stepped in. “Mr. Silver, you just got a call about…”

Y/N froze, letting out a surprised cry, even while being halfway concealed under the water with her back to the doorway. Normally, Terry would find this sort of modesty amusing, and he certainly didn’t care whether he was seen in such a state, but for her comfort, he’d made it a rule among the staff to never enter the bathroom or bedroom when he and Y/N were spending time together. Terry threw an arm around her, pressing her to him protectively.

“What the hell are you doing in here? I’ve told you, absolutely no interruptions when she and I are in here together. Get the fuck out, now,” he bellowed, and after a few more sputtered words, the man stumbled over the threshold and closed the door, his rushed footsteps disappearing down the hall.

“That motherfucker’s seen his last day working in this house…” Terry growled as Y/N finally relaxed her shoulders, peeling herself far enough off of him to face him.

“Baby, now don’t do that…” She grabbed the bottle of soap from the side of the bath, spreading some on her hands and rubbing his shoulders soothingly.

After a minute or so of fuming, downing the rest of his drink as he kneaded her hip with his free hand, Terry finally relented, giving into her touch. Though he was still aching to take her fast and rough, curiosity got the better of him and he watched with reverent, rapt fascination as Y/N spread the soap across his shoulders and then his arms, before smoothing it across his chest and delving her fingers under the water to reach his stomach.

She finished the ritual by scooping handfuls of water over his soapy skin, acting completely oblivious to the way his cock had started to prod against her center- apart from the blush that tinted her cheeks. Eager to return the favor, Terry turned her so that he could caress the expanse of her back, tracing the path of her freckles. He coaxed her to lay back against him and began to brush his fingers over her nipples, pinching them just hard enough to draw a whimper from her lips before taking her breasts fully into his hands and kneading them.

One at a time, he extended her arms above her head, dragging his touch up the side of her body from her waist to her wrist as he did so. The gesture left her shaking and panting in his grip, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, maneuvering her forward in his lap again and resourcefully using his empty drink glass to pour water over her hair.

“You know, it’s the fucking tragedy of my life that I found you so late,” he murmured, lathering and then rinsing the shampoo from her hair, and she was grateful that he couldn’t see her eyes glisten. She would likely spend most of her life without him, too. But she also had the rest of her life to contemplate that, and the present moment demanded her attention, lest she regret it forever.

Feeling daring, she reached up to gently tug the ponytail holder from the back of Terry’s head. Though his posture tensed and his jaw stiffened, to her surprise, he did not intervene. He liked to be the one doing the touching; he typically didn’t like to be touched- especially to have his hair messed with. But this had started as an evening of returning favors.

She dampened his silver curls, threading her fingers through them, until the tenderness of the situation finally became too much for him to stand. He lunged at her, pinning her to the side of the tub and caging her in with an arm on either side of her.

“We’d better start making up for lost time.”

#terry silver #thomas ian griffith #cobra kai #cobra kai fanfic #cobra kai fic #creative writing #terry silver x reader #one shot #x reader

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thevanillerose · 6 months ago

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CHANGED | GRIFFITH x READER | BERSERK

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~ ~ NOVELS ~

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators.

He wasn't the one you remembered.

Griffith had betrayed you. Had betrayed Guts. He had betrayed everyone who had once been an ally to him. To think that he could cast you all aside so easily was...

Well...it hurt. Deeper than any knife could.

You didn't want to admit that he caused you pain, but that was just the way things were. At the end of the day, any human's soul was as fragile as the next, and for you to be so affected by his abandonment of what you thought he would always stay loyal to...was that not natural?

Guts tried to speak to you and comfort you. Casca did the same, but your appetite had dwindled and you would spend much of your time sitting on the ledge, taking up a window in whatever accommodation you were housed in at the time, staring at the moon and thinking about that fateful day that he had betrayed you.

You resented all that he had done, but there was no way of reprimanding him. You didn't even know if you would ever see him again.

Once he was gone, that seemed to be the end of it.

Until...

You were on your way back to the camp that had been set up. The deep, thick forest was barely punctuated by the light of the sunset, so it felt as if it were already the depths of night. At first you felt no fear, but the simple sound of a twig snapping nearby caused your nerves to turn taut.

Glancing around over your armored shoulder, you noticed that there was some kind of shadow shifting between the trees, not so distantly behind you.

Your hand went to the hilt of your sword. There was a cold sweat growing on the back of your neck. The night hadn't quite arrived yet but you already felt so chilled. Somehow you could already predict who it was before he showed himself...and it still alarmed you anyway.

“...Griffith...”

He emerged from between the trees, softly, practically gliding into view. His body was almost entirely covered in sheets of metal, curved and shaped to fit his slender figure. This included his head, which was covered with a helmet, besides the sharp eyes that stared out at you from within.

At first he didn't say anything. Something about his presence though...it seemed utterly different. How you could tell as much, you weren't quite sure.

There was just an unsettling vibe to it all, and your hand didn't let up on holding that sword of yours. Even if he had once been a companion, he was now an enemy, right? You'd strike out if you had to.

Moonlight came almost as quickly as the sun retreated, and ripples of it traversed down through the dancing leaves to grace his tall figure. Not a word had been spoken yet, and so you decided to try and pursue some sort of conversation. Even just a simple answer would do so much to ease the pain and confusion that he had ultimately caused you to feel.

“...Why did you leave us? Why did you turn against us?”

No reply.

It was irritating. This was not the reunion you would have ever wanted. At the very least, it would be better if you could see his face, no?

While still cautious, you stepped forward, allowing the blade to slide back into the confines of its sheath again, choosing instead to reach out with your hands and clutch the helmet around his head.

Only then did he act at all. His own fingers shot up and curled around your wrists, tugging, urging you not to do it.

But you had to see him.

Were you afraid? Perhaps. You didn't know what you would see. You didn't know if you'd even see anything you recognized. It felt like enough time had passed that he might no longer be recognizable...

However, there was no use in denying the truth. It was better to face it while you finally had the chance to do so.

With one swift, defiant motion, you tugged the helmet off his head and cast it aside against the grass by your feet. Another sharper breeze whistled by and caused his pure white hair to flutter away from his face. Lavender eyes gazed down at you.

They had always been calm. But now they seemed too hollow. His expression was so placid he looked less like a living being, and more like a soulless porcelain doll. His lips may have carried the color of blood, but you really wondered if there was even an ounce of it still flowing through him.

No warmth. No life. He stood and breathed and blinked, but he didn't seem to even be so sentient anymore.

It was that gaze, wasn't it?

He was looking right through you.

“...Why did you come and see me...if you were just going to be like this?” you questioned sorrowfully, trying not to weep as your hands clasped his cheeks tentatively instead. Perhaps some small part of you wanted to pull his head from his shoulders too...but no...you simply touched him with grace, reluctance, and worry.

Sadness.

Why deny it? Seeing him like this...you couldn't help but feel it.

“Why do this to me? It's like torture...”

Your hands began to slip away, and you too. It seemed a far better option to leave him here, didn't it? What would you get out of him when he was in this strange vegetative state? Besides just a cold leer...

Yet as you were trying to retreat, his hand suddenly reached out and took yours again. Flinching, not expecting the action, you froze up a little and looked down at where you were now connected, before raising your eyes to meet his.

Those plush lips parted, and for once, however quietly, you heard his voice.

“...Come with me.”

...Go with him?

...Go where?

No...no you couldn't. You'd loved him once, there had even been a time when you would have thrown yourself into an early grave just to keep him safe. Times changed though. People did.

Here stood a man you could trust no longer. His touch was so alien to you now that you jerked away from it, stumbling back a few steps.

Better to let the trees swallow you up instead. Better to go back to the warm fire at camp, sit and eat with those who still truly cared for you.

Better to leave this stranger standing here, hand still extended like you'd never left at all.

This wasn't the same Griffith anymore.

Perhaps...you were the one who ought to abandon him...

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS!

#xreaderfanfic #xreader #romance #writing #writingcommissions #readerinsert #writing commissions #fanfic #x reader #berserk #griffith #griffith berserk #retro anime #classic anime #vanilleworks #vanillerose #vanille

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missvaseline · 2 months ago

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Whenever you watch me: Chapter 2 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

When Griffith was a child, he found his very first member. They've grown together and she became the best swordsman he’s ever seen, a prodigy. But there is a difference between being a mercenary, and then being Griffith’s.

Triggers: harassment, heavy manipulation, possessiveness, dubious consent, sadism

Read Previous: Chapter 1

The swordsman's eyes focused on the tree line following the river before she turned to the voice behind her.

“You show up and ask me to race now?” The swordsman asked, adorning skepticism on her face.

“Like I’ve been showing up and asking you every sunrise. This isn’t a strange occurrence.”

“While we are… upset at each other?” She corrected.

Aqua eyes searched for every hint of understanding that he could find within her own. Her name slipped between his lips as he scoffed.

“When I told you to retreat for the night, I was no longer upset.”

Delicate lips twinged as she brushed her fingers between the fabric of yesterday’s clothing balled in her arms, a nervous habit over any of her wear. Inky guilt still clung to her while skepticism hid just beneath.

“What if I’m too upset to race?”

“Then I’ll console you.”

A breeze settled through that chilled her without her armor. And it was all the more reason to ponder simply putting on the iron suit and racing with him just for a little bit. These moments stirred her into long confusion, words were usually stuck behind chattering teeth while she struggled to understand. It felt like a need lost and forgotten in the comfortable confines of its near famine which never seemed to fully go away in every cycle

“I’ll put on my armor.” She said.

She slipped passed the linen of her tent and all too quickly strapped herself into her armor. When she had come out he had already gathered their horses, quietly waiting while the morning fog lapped at the metal plates over his calves.

He looked magnificent. It was a standard thought that he tended to himself more often in the mornings. But it seemed as though it was more than usual. How the world around her grows rose tint the closer she got to him. He had this way about him.

The dueler gathered the leather reigns from him, climbing onto her steed. It was soon that hooves trotted in rhythms beside each other. The low of yesternight was melted by the warmth of the morning and already she was in higher spirits. They would go a mile out from camp, riding into a trail that slithered through crowded trees; their score with each other was neck and neck in their races.

“How far do you want to go?” He asked.

“To the hills? Finish line at the big boulder.” The corners of his lips lifted.

“Ambitious today?”

And hers did too, “Are you?” She concurred.

When their horses stopped at the redwood tree they had labeled as a starting point for the area, they had waited. She kept her steed ready.

“We’ll see where the ambition goes after this race.”

She tightened her fingers over leather, already picking out the best routes to take. She brushed the dark brunette main of her steed, leaning in slightly. Blue eyes toured the slant of her body pressed over the back of her mount.

“Listen Viola, we’re going to defeat this chap and I swear, I’ll find as many apples for you to eat. Focus, girl” She whispered to the flicking ear of the stead before straightening herself. The horse chortles and snorts in response, breaths in the cold air danced.

“I could never get over that name, Viola.” He tittered. "I wonder if the apples you feed her will be from spoils or consolations.”

Suddenly, leather cracked into the air as he whipped his reigns, his stallion surged forward leaving a trail of his laughter behind to chase after.

“You cheat!” She yelled, painfully snapping her reins, the quick jolt of her horse being unfelt in comparison to Griffith’s jests.

“Cheat?” His voice called back honeyed in mock offense as he failed to let her catch up, “Whenever did I call start before?”

Molars pressed into themselves as heels dug into the sides of her steed. Her stomach nearly pressed into the curved leather of her saddle as she leaned forward trying to catch as much speed as possible. Long silver tail hairs whipped like a mocking flag in front of her as she focused.

“I didn’t call start yet!” Her nag finally ate the distance between them.

“Ambition doesn’t wait for permission.”

His fingers loosened over his reins as a form of mercy, slowing down just to mirror her steed.

“There. Better?” He cast his Azure gaze on her as his lips formed into a leer.

“Oh, don’t give me that, you are so cheap.” She said between laughter, both of their steeds galloping easily through the trail. In just enough gradualness, she hastened her mount again to shoot forward. A defiant chortle shot out of her as she snapped back to look for Griffith behind. Though only the empty damp pined path was shown before hearing his horse snort beside her.

“They’re my tricks, don’t you think it would be harder to use on me?”

“Of course.” The swordsman grumbles, leather creaking between her tightening fingers.

His smile turned away as his eyes flickered in behind him and then forward. His horse suddenly stepped in front of her path, halting her.

“Let’s take a detour.” Eyes flickered up to his as her brow tilts.

“I don’t know the paths out this far besides this one and we are racing.”

“Plans changed. You can follow me.”

He says as he and his steed sift in front of her, the golden light from the sky kissing his argent locks into its color.

“We have training-“

“I let them know we are on a longer race.”

The air grew quiet before she finally relented, following him deeper into the forest where the path raised into its convoluted nature. Every piece of land was a novelty in every pace revealed as she grew quiet.

“Where are we going?” She called out as she trailed behind him.

“You’ll see.”

He replied without looking back.

Intuition stirred beneath the surface of her as they ventured forth. Minutes melted into nearly an hour before the trees parted themselves into a small field. Blue speckled between green in the clearing like a secret waiting to be told.

The swordsman halted before going any deeper as trail of parted grass followed his horse until he stopped at the center, the only thin misplaced was a ross ridden boulder. Life had painted him in front of her eyes in a still frame until the breeze whispered between silver, wavy tresses and the greenery below him. Her mind couldn’t fumble the words together as his cobalt eyes pointing the sky suddenly flickered down to her.

“How do you feel?”

he asked, making her uncertainty well to the surface.

“A bit… confused, though, the orchids are beautiful… these are the same flowers we used to collect as children.”

“Why did you decide to follow me?”

The swordsman paused as she searched for his meanings in his eyes.

“Because… you told me to?” She stilled on her horse as she watched him carefully.

“Why when I said so?”

Air thickened with his tone. Asking the question again and again until she made the right answer.

“Because I wanted to.”

Griffith slipped off of his horse, pacing to her, palm open, beckoning her. He silently waited.

“I don’t understand the meaning of this-“

“Take my hand.” He interrupted with velvet shaping the dagger hidden under his words.

Carefully, she reached for his hand, slipping off her horse before he quietly paced them to the center of the field. The dueler moved to pull her hand away but he tightened his fingers to the shape of her palm. Blades of grass and pedals sighed between armor as they sifted to the middle where rays of the sun littered groups of sapphire corolla at once. He finally stopped and turned to face her, his look burrowing into her own.

“You followed me here because you want to. Our shared history. It wasn’t blind faith.”

A tug and she skipped closer.

“You aren’t blindly following me.” He whispered as if the trees that stood around them was an audience attempting to peer into their conversation. Silver brows furrows slightly with a rare look. So unique it was hard to place.

“I see…” The swords master averted her gaze as confusion was hitting to a boiling point. She was scared to say the wrong thing. To stir him when they were alone, damn near lost away from the camp.

She was trapped here with adrift and him. Leather over the pad of his thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“When I stumbled on this field, It scared me.” Silver lashes veiled his eyes as he glanced at the curves that made her palms.

“Why?”

“Because it was something other than what I always thought I wanted for once.” He gave a half smile, “That was years ago. Could you imagine how my thoughts are now?”

“What were those thoughts?” She asked.

A beat of silence and he tugged her fingers to pull her a step closer to him. His presence, larger than the field they were standing in.

“How do I own a kingdom when you’re not there.”

Eyes stared until the cool breeze between them forced her to blink.

“I could be a knight or come to visit whenever I can. I’m sure you’ll be busy in the castle when you get there.” She cooed, trying to soothe his worries. It was understandable, they were like bonded felines- unable to stray too far from each other naturally. At least that was her reasoning

“I mean,” He paused before craning over her, “When you’re not here, like this. This close.”

Blood quickly ran to her cheeks; It felt so dry outside there was nothing to swallow.

“I won’t be leaving you like that. I’ll always be here when you need me.” Was all she could muster. She stilled, eyes widening as she felt silvery, wavy bangs against her forehead as he pressed his against hers. Another breath shortens while leather slipped against her cheek.

“Always?” He murmurs, “Say it again.”

The cold confused her; she couldn’t stop shaking. The dueler took a step back but he followed with another in a duet.

“I-I’ll always be here.” her breath pushed out. She jolted as the thumb that rubbed her cheek suddenly pressed upon her bottom lip, brushing it open. He reeled for comfort again, his compulsive need wrapping around her like a bag over her head.

“Again.”

He took a step closer, caging her against the large boulder she thought was so far away.

“I’ll a-always!“ She coughed as she felt his thumb push against her tongue. “Griff-!“

“Shh shh.” Griffith hushed, His thumb slid deeper while the tip his nose brushed against her scalp, inhaling the ghost fragrance of lilac. “You always reminded me of these orchids.”

The swordsman began to pant. Sheets of her armor scraped against the boulder, the sound that tore from it felt as grating as the gloved finger between her teeth. She yanked her mouth back before she felt the bite of fingers squeeze her jaw harder. Hacks sounded again while a strange tinge coil within her gut.

“Where you don’t need much care to be in the way that’s perfect. Beautiful.” He whispered, “I just needed to keep the weeds away to let you grow when we were kids. It was easy that way then... Do you know how hard that will be when I’m writing edicts and sitting on the throne. How the weeds will come then to steal your time like vultures who were waiting for the kill all along.”

Palms push at his shoulder as she gagged while the finger held her tongue down.

“Griffith-”

Nails skitter at iron plates before he finally relinquished her, spit bridging from her chin while she peeled over to cough violently. Griffith simply held his gaze at her while the wretching continued.

“I apologize for the slip.” He said almost too gently. He kept himself gated behind a boundary he was barely holding up to.

“I had gotten upset thinking about it-”

“Fuck your feelings, you scared me!”

He kept the mask of calm as she resolved herself. She peeled from the rock to quickly get to her horse, scrambling like it was life raft.

“Whatever is going on with you, you need to deal with it!”

She yelled as he didn’t turn to face her. She assumed it was from guilt.

“You don’t even know the way back.”

“I’ll find it!” She yelled as she whipped her reins, the hooves driving themselves away from him- leaving him in the parting of trees. Her eyes were frantic as she shivered on her horse. Why would he do that? Where did that come from? Why was he acting this way suddenly? It was the questions that poured into her because if he were to rock in his resolve, she would feel it. She always did. Even when he appeared calm- it was the slightest tone of his voice that would make her feel it.

He's never this upset unless she spent too much time training with others. In their teens, whenever she would come home late from hanging with the others, she would face his fury in the shape of him sitting in dent in chair at their shack of a home. The hidden resolve would torture her with questions and nitpickings down the bone just for him to reshape her skin with something else.

Flowers hummed against steel as he stood long after she had left.

#griffith #berserk #griffith x reader #we are all fucked up #my fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #tts #podfic #audiobooks #fanfiction #smut #dubious consent #SoundCloud #x reader #beserk fanfiction #femto #griffith berserk

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chansao · 4 months ago

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beautiful things

• capa para futura mega doação

• em cãs de inspiração, credite

Uma capa que espero passar sobre uma relação tóxica e dependência emocional . baseada nessa musica aqui embaixo

#capa de fanfic #design simples #capa fanfic #coverdesign #capa social spirit #capa dark #capa doação #capa berserk #capa guts #capa griffith #Spotify

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friendofyourboyfriend · 1 month ago

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BEHOLD My casca timeloop fic :)!

thank you so much to everyone who encouraged this !! this is your fault!

#berserk #casca #griffith #oghghhghughhgfh whehheheheheh #fanfiction #fanfic promo

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nine-blessed-hero · 2 months ago

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2x last line + an excerpt

I was tagged by @hannah-heartstrings and @inkoherentwriting for a last line, and also yoinking an open tag from @jiubilant for an excerpt, TY all!

Tagging back (reminder this is DruidX's fandom sideblog): @aalinaaaaaa @ieppiq @wispstalk @rhikasa @eli-writes-sometimes @hannah-heartstrings @artdecosupernova-writing @mythrilpencil @aquadestinyswriting @reneesbooks @oh-no-another-idea @winglesswriter @pheita

Rules: Post the last line you wrote in your current project OR a short excerpt from your current project (or if you fancy, do both like me).

This is the most recent bit I've added to The Ruby Falls, featuring a text conversation between Baurus (BB) and Aderyn, HoK (Problem Child) regarding her acquisition of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes

To: BB From: Problem Child Good - 1st ed had a copy of vol. 3 Bad - some other fucker got there first Dw I've got a plan To: Problem Child From: BB Copy that. Wait. What plan? What. plan. ??

#baurus #hero of kvatch #oc aderyn griffiths #writing #wip 'the ruby falls'#haven's ember series #modern oblivion au #TESFic #oblivion fanfiction #oblivion fanfic #tes oblivion #The Elder Scrolls #wandering words #I enjoy their interactions. they're either funny or moving. golden pair <3 I hope it comes over like a true friendship...

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channnel · 1 year ago

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Since I posted my old drawing of mdhm (that and I haven't posted for a while), might as well post my very first drawing of it.

Featuring old art #2, Alan looked so different in my old art style, Claude doesn't have arms, and Jules looks like Jules.

#my dear hatchet man #mdhm game #Mdhm #mdhm alan #Fanart #Alan Orion #Claude Merle #Jules Griffith #my art #Old art #If y'all curious on the context of this- I made this when I first made the first chapter of my anonymous fic in mdhm #You can like find my fic easily too- I think it's the only fic with ✨family✨ as a tag- spoiler alert it did not end with ✨family✨#It starts with Jules getting dragged to the ground and it ends with Claude getting bitten in the arm- by none other than Alan #If you know what fanfic I'm saying then hi hello how are you #If you're still reading this tags- straighten your back right now banana man #hope you like it

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gyodragon · 3 months ago

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Happy New Year, all! I participated in the Clangmas 2024 gift exchange and am super pleased to reveal the result: Nearly 12k words of canon-divergent Griffith angst. The scope of this story spans 7 years after Griffith kills Guts outside the walls of Wyndham. Thank you, toxic, for an excellent prompt! I hope you enjoy the fic and its companion art piece. This format may be what I turn to for Iron Hawk in the future. Prey Regretted (M, 11,600 words) Read on AO3

#clangmas2024 #berserk #berserk fanart #griffith #berserk fanfic #fanfiction #my writing

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willfulabyss-fics · 1 month ago

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New whumpable boy just dropped, and I’m obsessed. 🖤

————————————————————

Fandom: Infinity Nikki

Title: Deeply Engraved

Rating: T

Characters: Griffith/Giovanni, Avicinda

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Nobody bothered to lock the door behind them when they came for the body.

Griffith stands with his hand on the knob, only the hemming of rust in the side jamb and the resistance in his own arm keeping the door to Cicchetto Manor closed now. He can’t bring himself to open it…

Read More on AO3

#infinity nikki #griffith cicchetto #giovanni #giovanni infinity nikki #avicinda #fanfic

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eemcintyre · 8 months ago

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Surprise very spicy one-shot! (Terry Silver)

TW- daddy kink, humiliation kink, dacryphilia kind of, slight size kink, coming inside.

Summary- Reader is embarrassed to ask Terry (CK era) if she can call him by a title that I think is obvious from the TW

I have no idea what to call this or what dark recess of my mind it came from, but here's a very random little treat for y'all that I hope you enjoy <3 (P.S. happy vacation @karatekels)

“There’s something you don’t want to tell me,” he realized. “I promise, whatever it is, I won’t be upset with you.”

“No. It’s not… It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, it’s…” The tension in her shoulders dropped from frustration as her voice fell to a barely audible murmur. “I can’t talk about it. I can’t tell you.”

“Come here; sit down.” Terry patted one of his thighs, spreading his legs slightly, beckoning her into his lap.

She glanced timidly up from her shuffling feet to his lap and decided it was better not to keep testing him, as that never seemed to end well for anyone. As he positioned her to straddle and face him, slipping his arms around her waist and feeling her tentatively settle into the familiar, comforting position, he continued.

“You know you can tell me anything, babydoll.” Her back tensed up again and he ran a large hand up and down her spine. “You’ve got me curious now.”

“I can’t…” She tried to wrestle back out of his grip, but he just held her tighter, stroking one hand across her back more firmly and digging the nails of his other hand into her over her clothes as a warning.

“Why? Are you worried I’ll be mad, that I’ll laugh, what?” He smiled gently in an attempt to get her to lower her guard, but she recoiled as much as it was possible from his inquiring expression and touch.

“It’s embarrassing,” she whimpered.

Now Terry was sure- between how she was simultaneously unable to even look at him but also constantly fidgeting against his body, to the pink flush that climbed her neck and had her cheeks absolutely glowing- this was about something sexual.

No longer having to worry about whether something was seriously wrong, Terry’s more mischievous and cunning instincts awakened. He leaned in to begin pressing gentle kisses along her jaw, seeking to both reassure her and heighten the humiliated arousal she seemed to be feeling. Though she still refused to tear her gaze from the wall behind them, her posture stiffened, breaths now coming in short gasps.

“You know I’ll give you whatever you want- all you have to do is ask me.” She opened her mouth, but he corrected her before she could speak- “You have to look at me, baby.”

She tried to curl into herself, hiding her face in the spot connecting Terry's shoulder and neck and letting out a frustrated whine before he pulled her back into his view, gripping her chin to force her to face him. He gazed at her expectantly, not wanting to be too harsh and intimidate her back into her shell, but sternly enough to compel her to obey. Several long seconds of silence ensued.

She swallowed hard, taking one of his hands in hers and toying with it; the action was something solid and concrete to ground her racing heart and thoughts, tracing the veins and his long fingers. He would allow her as long as it took to collect herself, but she was going to tell him what was on her mind. When she finally spoke, he was surprised at how much she managed to steady her voice.

“I was just wondering if… Can I… Can I call you daddy?”

Terry froze, momentarily forgetting to breathe as his vision went hazy and blood rushed to below his belt. When he didn’t immediately respond, she wrenched her chin from his grip and hid her face in her hands.

“I told you, never mind! It’s stupid and weird; it’s disgusting…”

“It is disgusting,” he nodded, his voice hoarse. He slowly pulled her hands from her face, revealing tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes as she tried her hardest yet to struggle out of her spot on his lap. In a sudden move he then yanked her hips so that they were flush against him and squeezed her waist possessively. “I want you to say it again.”

Her jaw went slack, eyes wide with shock as she croaked out “…Daddy.”

“Now, tell me exactly what you want, because I’m aching to give it to you,” Terry groaned, placing one of her delicate hands over his pants and the shape of his hardening cock. She shuddered, this time from arousal rather than anxiety, forcing herself to maintain eye contact as he guided her hand up and down his shaft.

“Please take care of me, daddy,” she whimpered, the title still feeling foreign on her tongue, but not wrong. “I’m so wet for you.”

He felt the last of her stubborn will to fight and hide from him diminish as she started to lean into his touch, melting into the warmth of his large hand over hers and his growing erection beneath it.

“I bet you are,” he replied in a smug, condescending tone that made her feel small and even more embarrassed, if it were possible. “That’s a good girl; keep going.”

She stuttered her way through a few more of the specifics of what she craved; the twisted things she wanted him to do to her that were all the more so with his new title in the mix.

“Don’t worry, angel,” Terry crooned, “Daddy knows exactly what you need.”

With that, he effortlessly swept her into his arms, carrying her upstairs to the bedroom. Setting her on her unsteady feet, he undid every button and zipper with reverence, relishing the way she clung to him when her knees buckled.

Once she was bare for him, Terry pulled her back into his lap at the end of the bed, facing the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. It was nerve-wracking to be totally exposed to him while he remained clothed, especially as this image stared her inescapably in the face from the mirror. She clutched the arm he had looped around her stomach as he spread her legs open with his own and studied her hungrily.

“Just relax for me,” he cooed, stroking the inside of her thigh before running the pads of his fingers through her wetness. “Tell daddy how he makes you feel.”

She was already wet enough for him to work two fingers inside her and thrust at a slow but steady rhythm, feeling her fluttering walls suck him in. He looked up from his handiwork to the reflection of the mirror, admiring how his fingers stretched her. They could reach all the right spots inside her that her own fingers couldn’t.

“Hhhnnn, feels so good… ah! Oh…”

His rough fingers curled up and grazed that spongy spot inside of her that made her keen, bucking her hips against his hand. Her free hand shot out to grab his muscular thigh for support as she clenched uncontrollably around him.

“You take it so well for me,” he hummed, craning his neck to plant hot, wet kisses across the side of her face.

“You’re so deep.” She was already nearly sobbing as the obscene sounds of his fingers moving in and out intensified.

“Listen to how soaked you are. That’s all for me?” He took one of her hands in his and pressed a kiss to it, the tenderness of the gesture combined with his degrading commentary making her lightheaded.

“Yes!” she cried. The combination of humiliation and pleasure was getting so overwhelming that, in the interest of self-preservation, she shut her eyes and covered her mouth.

Terry wasn’t going to go for that. He wanted- and felt he deserved- every single look and sound he elicited; every gory detail. His reward for making her feel so good, even if it absolutely mortified her. In fact, that arguably made it all the sweeter. Prying her hand from her lips, he shook his head, sighing. “Oh, don’t get all shy on me again now. You love it when I humiliate you a little.”

She was unable to suppress a gasp at the pressure inside as he finally increased the pace of his fingers.

“Aaaahhh! God, fuck!”

He grinned. Knowing that she was getting close, he withdrew his hand from her pussy. She started to whine helplessly until he took her by surprise and flipped them both around. Now she was underneath him on her stomach, pressed to the bed, rendered speechless.

“That’s why you got all hot and bothered asking if you could call me daddy,” he remarked. They were still facing the direction of the mirror, and she eyed the reflection of him towering behind her from his knees on the mattress, undoing his pants. “That’s vile.”

After Terry divested himself of his clothing, he grabbed her roughly by the ankles, flipping her onto her back and caging her underneath him again. Then he lunged at her, sucking hickeys into her neck and collarbone, his thick cock prodding at her thigh, making her ache in anticipation. She dug her nails into his broad shoulders, drawing a guttural sound from his lips.

“Was your father not there for you when you needed him to be? Was he even around at all?” Terry growled, sounding both like he was trying to further humiliate her and like he was angry at the possibility of anyone having hurt her. Before she could choke out a coherent answer, he continued. “That’s okay. Now you have a man who will treat you the way you deserve,” Terry spat, finally sheathing his throbbing cock inside of her, to the hilt, all in one go. She wailed at the sudden, all-encompassing feeling of fullness. “Surround you with my love and fill you full of it until you can’t take any more.”

The innuendo was not lost on her and, as his balls smacked her ass with each thrust, the thought of him pumping her full of his come sent a fresh wave of heat through her. His powerful thrusts sent her bouncing against the surface of the bed. Each one was initially accompanied by a sharp twinge of pain, but it soon faded into the dull, perversely satisfying ache that she had become used to with him.

At this point, he had her folded nearly in half under him, white-knuckling her legs over his shoulders as he pounded her into the mattress. He would be the sole guiding, protecting and caretaking older male figure in her life from now on. Without interrupting his brutal movements, he bent to make out with her, sliding his tongue into her warm and unresistant mouth. At the simultaneous penetrating movements of his cock and his tongue, she melted in his grip, pussy gushing around him.

“You want me to give it to you?” he asked, breaking the embrace and leaving them both gasping.

“Please! I need you, please!” she pleaded, eyes starting to well up again from the complete and utter overstimulation of everything.

“And who am I to you?” Terry persisted, reason leaving his body as he drew ever close to the edge and the sick animal in him fully took over. He was desperate to draw every last descriptive detail out of her even if it meant overwhelming her to the point of a complete breakdown. He pinned her wrists against the bed, adjusting the angle of his thrusts, only tearing his eyes away from hers to observe the faint outline of his dick rearranging her insides.

“Daddy!” she cried, the tears finally rolling down her flushed cheeks, her hands fisted into the blankets. Every stroke now had him in danger of blowing his load. He demanded again through gritted teeth:

“Who’s your daddy, baby?”

“You! You are!” she screamed, body trembling violently and words then dissolving into moans as she came all over his cock. The intensity of her pulsating around him was enough to finally set him off as well, and with a few more forceful, erratic thrusts, he came so hard that his eyes nearly rolled back, cock twitching, pumping his come into her with every pulse.

“That’s it, that’s my sweet girl,” he murmured various soothing words in her ear, slipping a hand under her ass for leverage and to fuck his come even deeper as they each rode their orgasm out.

Before he had a chance to pull out, she reached up to maneuver him so that he was laying on top of her, finding the weight calming as the spinning sensations in her mind and body stilled. He was content to oblige, tucking his face in the crook of her neck and taking in the heady scent of their combined perfume, cologne, body heat and sex as he worked to slow his ragged breathing back to normal.

#thomas ian griffith #terry silver #cobra kai #the karate kid #cobra kai fanfic #cobra kai fic #karate kid fanfiction #terry silver x reader #one shot #x reader #creative writing

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davidnsantana · 8 months ago

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THE DEVIL

A change from the Merlin usual Merlin fanart

#manga #a03 fanfic #fanart #traditional art #fanfic #queer #griffith x guts #griffith berserk #griffith #guts berserk #berserk #artists on tumblr

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missvaseline · 9 days ago

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Whenever you watch me: Chapter 11 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

Her lips tasted like his flavor.

The rising cacophony from the camp finally shattered the buzzing around her mouth. Shouts, the scream of sharpening steel, the frantic neighing of warhorses. Reality swallowed her whole, a brutal tide drowning the nascent embers of that fragile hope. The swordswoman broke from the treeline’s embrace, sprinting towards the maelstrom. Armor clanked with quick steps. She saw him almost immediately- Griffith, issuing orders while holding onto his calm. He turned as she approached, eyes finding hers across the churning sea of men and steel. The intensity from their encounter still simmered there.

“The eastern flank is faltering,” he stated, his voice cutting through to her, devoid of any hint of their earlier intimacy, yet somehow carrying its weight. “Laban’s strategy holds, but the Tudors press hard. The King’s Fifth needs support at the vanguard. You’re with me. We reinforce the front.”

Not the command post. Not guarding nobles. The front line. With him. The reversal of events felt succulent with fierce wild joy that surged through her. It fried whatever confusion was within. This was where she belonged

“Understood,” her voice clipped.

They moved together then, a whirlwind of silver and steel cutting through the ranks. Reaching the front, the true face showed itself. Mud churned with blood, the air thick with screams and the sticky coppery stench. Tudor soldiers, emboldened by numbers, crashed against the thinning line of the King’s Fifth like a relentless tide. The Swordswoman drew her blade naturally. It was as if a dam within her had burst. Years of discipline, hours of relentless training, the gnawing ache of being sidelined. Now she was feral. She ran forward, hands tight in her hilt as she swung at the side of a knight caught mid swing with his war hammer. Her sword rattled against chainmail, dulling a curdled scream beneath it. She twisted her upper half further to sink the edge of her blade deeper before stepping out to relinquish it from the hilt of his flesh. The swordswoman didn't have time to fully see the knight slump to the ground before she heard the whirl beside her. She side stepped, sabre slanted to arm herself as biceps hardened, taking the brunt of a long sword head on. Soles of her boots skid against pebbled rocks while teeth grit.

“Fucking bastard-” she snarled before falling forward, swords singing together as the sliver of eyes beneath the Tudor Knight's helmet widening at her bold move. Her sword came through his chest. She stepped forward with more strength. When warmth spilled over her tightened fingers, the last gasp parted from him and his sword slipped to dirt was when she stepped back to let his body fall. Two. Men fell before her like wheat before the scythe, their surprise often the last expression on their faces.

From the slight elevation where he coordinated the flanking maneuver, Laban watched, flinty wide eyes open with an echoed expression of bewilderment. He saw speed and the almost contemptuous ease with which she dispatched seasoned Tudor warriors. But more than that, he saw the ghost. It was Kael reborn, Kael’s ferocity unleashed without the older man’s weary caution. The sheer volume of her kills was mounted with every twist and arc of her blade She spun, avoiding a clumsy axe swing. Her proximity to freedom felt close to an earlier sensation. A whisper from beneath oak branches.

It was enough.

A hulking figure, sensing the momentary lapse, roared and charged. His movements were surprisingly fast for his size, his massive sword descending in a whistling swing aimed directly at her neck. She saw the rusted chainmail, and hatred burning in his eyes. Sunlight glinting off descending steel.

Instead, silence slammed down where the clang of impact should have been.

Griffith stood where the knight had been seconds before. His sabre was clean, yet the Tudor knight lay crumpled at his feet, neck severed in the way he attempted on her, eyes rolled up in their sockets. He turned to her, and the Swordswoman braced herself for the expected fury. Instead, he had placid concern etched over his features. The serenity wasn't coldness; it was deeper. His azure eyes scanned her with swift and thorough assessment for injury, devoid of panic or overt anger.

“Are you unharmed?”

She could only nod with a tight throat. The adrenaline drain leaving her suddenly weak-kneed. Sheer absence of his anticipated rage was more disorienting than the near-death experience itself. It didn't compute. It felt wrong.

He stepped closer, his gloved hand gently, briefly, resting on her shoulder pauldron. Intention was entirely unknown. "Stay alert," he gently patted her shoulder in a comradic gesture, "The battle turns. We press forward."

Then he was moving again, directing the charge, voice ringing with clarion command. The touch on her shoulder burned hot even through her armor plate. His calm, attentiveness, kindness- it sliced deeper than the Tudor’s blade could have. She watched Griffith become a beacon of silver against the chaos with his commands slicing through the battle like whip cracks. The echo of his touch lingered, more potent than the sweat cooling beneath her armor. His unexpected calm was a puzzle piece that refused to fit, leaving an unsettling vacancy where fury should have been. Shaking off the disquiet, she raised her blade again.

But the surge had already broken. The Tudor charge, emboldened by their initial success against the strained King’s Fifth, seemed to lose its impetus with the Hawks joining the vanguard. Where moments before there had been a desperate scuffle, now the Tudor were sputtering like dying embers. The Hawks flanked the remaining pockets of Tudor soldiers. And the cries of battle shifted, thinning cries and Shouts into chirping buzzards. The Swordswoman advanced, picking off isolated opponents, but the frenzy was gone, replaced by the grim task of cleanup. Mud sucked at her boots as she moved through the wreckage of the failed assault. The sweet adrenaline ebb leaving behind a weariness and the hollow ache of her earlier confusion.

Laban strode onto the churned battlefield from his command position. He stopped near the Swordswoman, nodding towards the impressive tally of Tudor dead surrounding her position. The ghost he’d seen in her movements was now evidenced by the sheer destruction she'd wrought.

“Good work, soldier,” he rumbled, the compliment gruff but sincere, carrying the weight of a commander’s rare approval. “You fight like him. Fast. Decisive. You honor his memory with that blade.”

“Hopefully I'm not just a ghost of my father in your eyes.” She replies, flicking stray blood onto mud before wiping the rest away with the purple cape of Tudor knight severed in half. Entrials gleamed from the sun above. Breathy laughter cracks behind her.

“This wasn’t a probing attack, too reckless for their main force right now. These weren’t frontline grunts. Look at their gear, what’s left of it. Better quality. Desperate, maybe, but skilled.” He spat onto the blood soaked ground while he focused on the narrow point of where the Tudor came between tall trees. “I’d wager they were a suicide squad. Sent ahead specifically to try and decapitate Midland command before the main offensive even begins tomorrow.”

His assessment resonated, clicking another piece into place. A targeted assassination attempt on the leadership. It explained the ferocity and seeming disregard for their own survival. And it underlined the danger of her post. Though she hadn't felt in danger even with cool steel swiping for her neck earlier.

“Figures.” She muttered, eyes narrowed at the blood seeped onto the crevice of her hilt as she tried to rub it away.

Guts had emerged from the across the field, his amor slick with blood. A scar knitting at his forearm. “West’s secure.”

Laban had given him a nod, “Good.”

She expected there to be a conversation between them when there wasn't any to be had. Guts lingered, his silence heavier than questions. Though he spoke anyway.

“You alright?”

She hadn't answered at first, believing he was speaking to Laban, but when the silence fell- she turned to meet their gazes pointed at her. The concern unnerved her more than his usual indifference. She hadn't imagined him being concerned, much less voicing it. She bristled, armor suddenly suffocating and hot like it wasn't winter’s eve approaching. “Fine. The ambush just… caught me off guard.”

His dark eyes held hers longer than she would surmise. She swore he saw it all. The distraction and guilt, the taste still haunting her lips. Guts’ dark eyes didn’t waver. The skepticism wasn't aggressive, just a quiet, heavy certainty that settled between them like dust after an explosion. He shifted his weight, the movement seeming to draw the very shadows of the alley deeper around them.

A deep hum settled through him in response, “I saw some of the auxiliary tents were damaged. Now that the perimeter is secure, come and help set up replacements.”

For some reason it didn't feel like a simple request. She paused first and then fell into step with him.

“Do your due diligence.” Laban said as a parting to them both and she realized his hovering sounded more like fanfare than the standard observation. It was a few steps on, then she saw him point vaguely back towards the treeline where she and Griffith had emerged separately moments ago.

“Seemed like you had other things on your mind. Saw you come out of the woods after Griffith did.” His comment lashed at her without him intending to, making her flinch. He’d seen them. Not together, maybe, but the implication was clear, hanging thick and undeniable in the air. Her constructed excuse crumbled between them, leaving her exposed. And he wasn't finished. This time he was stripped of pretense, “And when the attack hit near the command tent while Gaston was rallying the guard- I was patrolling the perimeter. Heard someone crying.” He looked uncomfortable saying it.

“Sounded like you.”

Crying? She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, only a dry click in her throat. Her mind scrambled, searching for denial, deflection, anything- but Guts’ focus on her subtle trembled form offered no escape. Before the crushing weight of exposure could fully snuff her, her eyes followed trails of smoke tangling above scraps of charred canvas, fragments of what structure they were. She subliminally took the opportunity to ignore Guts’ observations, sifting through the debris to salvage whatever survived.

Guts kicked away a beam now made of charcoal, easily snapping it from the force.

“Looks like eight.” He mused.

Her eyes briefly flicked to the scene as she gathered stray daggers hidden beneath torn cloth, “Nine. I'm sure we have a surplus at the supply carts.”

He grunted at the worse circumstances. The swordswoman stood with a dagger, an old cloak, a sword and a bed roll that managed to survive nearly unscathed. She sighed, finally managing to gather her wits to answer his question before she went rummaging for items in the dirt.

“One of the commanders knew my father. I got emotional. It was beyond me.” She whispered beneath the veneer of Midland knights and Hawks scattering to their duties alike.

The dueler didn't turn to look at Guts before she faced the direction of the line of carts. “Could use a hand bringing supplies for nine tents.” with that, he followed. By the time they had made it eastward, the supply carts themselves looked trampled and raided. She stepped faster, more determined to follow clues of smoke curling in the air, leaving Guts behind. When she rounded for the supply cart, she saw Corkus pinching the bridge of his nose, Pippin pulling out tainted canvas from the din of a burnt cart with arrows sputtered from it. They must've been chewing through the supply carts first right under the Hawk's noses.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you!" Rickert panted, addressing the Swordswoman, his eyes wide.

“Yes, Rickert?” She asked.

“You saw your tent, haven't you?”

The Swordswoman's tired look was enough of an answer to him. He managed carefully through an unsteady pant. Poor boy must've been running around in charge of site management with dwindled resources by now.

“Well, the supply carts have been torched along with the military grade tents. We had another set only to find those were torched too along with the weaponry carts”

The Swordswoman stared, words barely registering past the ringing in her ears that frustration began to chime. Rickert, mistaking her stunned silence for simple shock at the loss, hurried on, relaying his orders.

“Commander Griffith heard about it already. He said…” he lowered his voice conspiratorially as he stepped forward, “well, he’s allocated you space in his command tent for now.”

She must've been glaring daggers at him, her eyes parched from her focus on the young mercenary. Rickert shifted nervously, fumbling with his vambraces out of a nervous tick, clearly reciting a justification he didn’t fully grasp himself. Corkus and Pippin found themselves in the vortex of his words, stepping closer to eavesdrop.

“Said since you’re guarding the nobles anyway, and his tent is right near their command post. It's just practical. Saves setting up a new one right away, keeps you close to your duty station. The other Hawks are setting up further back, consolidating…” Rickert trailed off as he finally registered the profound, almost identical looks of stunned shock from everyone nearby. The Swordswoman felt the blood drain from her face. Griffith’s tent. His tent. After what transpired just moments ago? The world tilted, the ground unstable beneath her boots.

Guts’ reaction was a mirror of her own internal hell, but reflected through a different lens. His eyes widened fractionally. Corkus, standing in his simmering resentment, looked utterly poleaxed. His jaw dropped, eyes bulging, sputtering incoherently for a moment before raw outrage contorted his features.

“His tent? Are you kidding me!?”

The accusation of favoritism, always boiling, now exploded into full blown certainty in his furious gaze.

“Why?” The word clawed its way out, desperate and ragged. She grabbed Rickert’s arm, ignoring the startled look on his face, needing an anchor in the suddenly pitching world. “There must be something else- Officers’ quarters, requisitioned space. It’s safer to have separate tents, surely?” The plea sounded weak even to her own ears, laced with an impropriety she couldn't fully articulate but felt viscerally.

Rickert gently disentangled his arm, his expression sympathetic but firm. “I’m sorry, but the fire took the main supply carts- the ones with the spare command grade canvas. Everything’s gone. Griffith’s orders were clear. He said you should take it up with him directly if you had objections. Look, I need to help allocate what supplies we do have left.” With a final, apologetic glance, he turned and hurried away towards the smoking remnants of the supply line, leaving her adrift. Pippin had stopped rummaging for items, his glance seemingly mirroring Guts'.

Take it up with him directly. The suggestion was laughable. The near-miss in battle didn’t seem to phase him for this reason.

“Great.” She sighed to herself, her knees growing wobbly with frustration. She kept her face tilted to the earth, afraid that if otherwise, the heat on her face would be seen through her skin.

“Unbelievable,” Corkus sneered, breaking the stunned silence. His gaze dripped with envious contempt. “Of course she gets to share the White Hawk’s tent. Biggest one in the whole damn army, probably got feather pillows and silk sheets. While the rest of us are crammed five to a leaky canvas!

“Corkus,” Guts’ voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You’re dismissed from guard duty. Go help Rickert with the supplies.”

Corkus sputtered, indignant, but one look at the unyielding set of Guts’ jaw and the dangerous stillness in his eyes seemed to convince him. Muttering curses under his breath, he stalked off, defeated. She could feel Guts’ eyes on her as she stared down into the dirt with items balled in her arms.

“Do you need help carrying them?” his voice slivered through her grievances.

“I should be good. Thanks.” she gave a weary smile at him, trying to cover her growing angst. Pippin and Guts had stared at her enought to make her jolt from her place. "I'll just put this at my new tent." Before Guts could stop her she had already weaved herself through knights and mercanaries.

On the way to the noble’s tents, her eyes scanned the command area, settling on a large tent where muffled voices hummed within its hearth, indicating a debriefing was underway. Griffith was inside, undoubtedly charming the Midland commanders in the serenades they needed to hear. But standing just outside the flap, patient and observant, was Owen, the Toumel Knight leader. She haphazardly paced into Griffith’s tent, noting the spacious area. More- the smell of him before she placed her items down on the ground. Corkus may have not been lying. Though, the dueler didn't have the time to see for herself. she was quick to Catch Owen before the nobles did, slipping out from the tent to dart directly for him. He could at least tactically give answers, his non bias reasoning may be more clarifying than her gut deep down assuming that this wasn't coincidental. If anything, Midland could fetch her a spare tent.

“Sir Owen,” she began as she approached, keeping her voice level.

He turned, offering a polite, if slightly weary, smile. “Ah, the Hawk herself. Settling in?”

“A question, if I may,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. “Midland command- are there absolutely no spare officer’s tents available? Any reserves at all?”

Owen’s smile faded slightly, replaced by genuine sympathy. “None, I’m afraid. The fire was thorough, hit the primary stores hard. Everything extra went up in smoke. Why do you ask? Does this have to do with Commander Griffith lending you space in his pavilion?”

So, it was already common knowledge among the command staff. She felt like she was being stripped of her skin and exposed for everyone to see. “I understand the necessity, but I worry it could be politically unwise for him. Sharing quarters with a soldier, even one under his command. Nobles gossip.” She offered the concern as a plausible, detached observation, hiding the frantic personal objections churning beneath.

“Commander Griffith seems remarkably unconcerned with such whispers,” he observed dryly. He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision, lowering his voice slightly.

“Look, I don’t wish to alarm you, but Commander Laban is my closest friend. We spoke after you met him this morning. Griffith likely offered his tent as a form of protection. Your father- he was a significant figure, and at one point, a political enemy, or at least a perceived one, to certain factions within Midland.”

The Swordswoman stiffened, her blood running cold despite the lingering warmth on her lips. Laban knew. Owen knew. How many others? This offered a potential logic, albeit a disturbing one. Protection through proximity, control disguised as shelter. It fit Griffith’s pattern.

“But,” Owen frowned, tapping his chin,“that’s the odd part. From what Laban recalls, and from the histories I know- very few of the current high command actually saw Kael in person, especially not near the end. Which makes Lord Lyle’s comment earlier, his claiming you looked familiar rather surprising. Almost impossible.”he trailed off.

The Swordswoman seized on the doubt. “Lord Lyle looked old enough to confuse my face with any number of soldiers he’s seen over the decades,” she countered, perhaps too quickly. “Memory plays tricks.”

Owen shrugged, though his eyes remained troubled. “Yet, Laban seemed quite unsettled by it, Lyle’s apparent recognition. Staying close to Griffith, within the commander’s inner circle might be best. I say this to reason you, as you came here looking for answers presumably.”

Hidden in plain sight. Or trapped in the center of the storm. With Griffith, she suspected, there was rarely a difference.

"But why?" she pressed Owen, lowering her voice, needing to understand the underlying current pulling her into these dangerous waters. "If Laban knows who my father was and the potential complications… why bring me here? Why involve me with the high command? Wouldn't it be safer for everyone, including him, to keep me at arm's length, or buried within the Hawk ranks?" Why wasn't he trying to oust her, leverage her past, or simply warn Griffith away?

Owen shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping the perimeter as if ensuring their conversation remained private. His answer, when it came, was coated in the smooth patina of courtly diplomacy, yet felt oddly hollow.

"Commander Laban values competence above pedigree." Owen added, a slight emphasis on the word, "though, trusting the known quantity, even one with a complex past, is often safer than relying on the shifting allegiances and whispered poisons of nobility. They backstab each other for sport.”

His answer felt practiced and evasive. It didn't fully explain the personal risk Laban seemed to be taking, nor the almost paternalistic way he’d handled the dagger. Something was missing. But Owen wasn't finished. He leaned fractionally closer, his next words delivered with a quietness that prickled the hairs on her neck.

"And between us… it wasn't Griffith who initially pushed for your placement here."

The Swordswoman froze. "What?"

"Laban utilized the King's formal decree quite deliberately, commander Griffith, initially, seemed less than enthusiastic about you being detached from the main Hawk force and placed directly within this command circle."

He clarified. That clarification punched the air from her lungs. Griffith hadn't wanted her here? He hadn't lied about the King's decree being the impetus, at least not entirely. But his reluctance. Now, it contradicts everything. She stared at Owen until he shifted uncomfortably. There was no reason for him to lie about this.

"I… see," she murmured, the words feeling inadequate. There were no other tents. Laban had insisted she be here. Griffith, after initial reluctance, had seized the chance created by the fire to ensure she stayed, right next to him. There was no escape hatch, no alternative lodging. She had to stay in his tent. The realization settled with the cold finality of a dungeon door slamming shut.

And then, slicing through the confusion, came the memory of Griffith’s voice in morning dew months back:

"Was it less confusing when we were younger? Sharing tents, telling each other stories? Was it better when we did those things?"

Sharing tents. How convenient. How perfectly, suspiciously convenient that circumstances had now forced them back into that childhood intimacy, the very state he had wistfully recalled back then.

A fleeting thought surfaced- Casca. Could she share with Casca? But the idea died almost instantly. Casca commanded Hawk units, her tent would be positioned with the main encampment, likely miles from this command nerve center where the nobles and generals huddled. It was logistically impossible, reinforcing the stark reality of her situation.

A humorless scoff escaped her lips, "Funny," The word came tight with irony, "I accused him of engineering this, of wanting me here all along. He didn't exactly fight me on it." in fact he leaned into it.

Owen chuckled softly, a sound of genuine amusement mixed with a hint of resignation. He clearly recognized the intricate dance of power and personality between the Swordswoman and the White Hawk, even if he didn't grasp all the steps.

"Well, Navigating Commander Griffith's motivations seems a campaign strategy unto itself. He may have simply recognized the inevitable once Laban invoked the King."

The Swordswoman let out a weary sigh, rubbing her temples against the burgeoning headache the day’s revelations had induced. The tent flap behind Owen remained closed, muffled voices still audible from within. "How long do you expect their debriefing to last?" she asked, the edge returning to her voice. Patience felt like a foreign currency she couldn't afford right now.

Owen glanced back at the command tent, then back at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Impatient to move into your new accommodations, are we?"

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, armor plates groaning faintly in protest. Her jaw set stubbornly. "I think I've had quite enough surprises for one day, Sir Owen. Knowing what comes next feels like a necessary tactical advantage at this point."

He turned slightly, lowering his voice again as if sharing a confidence that bordered on impropriety.

"Regarding Laban, he likely made some promise to Kael. Years ago."

The Swordswoman's breath hitched. A promise? To her father? "What kind of promise?"

“I do not know. Laban guards his past closely. But Kael saved his life once, perhaps more than once. Debts like that, among men like them, are not easily forgotten, regardless of politics or kings."

This added another layer of complexity, a motive rooted in honor rather than strategy or manipulation. But it still didn't explain everything. "How did he even know it was me?" she pressed, the question burning. "My father kept his family life separate. How could Laban possibly recognize me after all these years, amidst thousands of soldiers?"

Owen hesitated, his gaze flicking towards the royal crypts, unseen beyond the camp bustle. "He told me… it was at the funeral procession. For Julius and Adonis."

The Swordswoman frowned, trying to recall the chaotic, grief stricken event.

"The queen noticed the disturbance. Laban was standing quite near her then, part of the immediate royal escort. He said when you looked up, after bowing, he saw your face clearly for the first time. And he knew. Instantly."

Stunned silence descended again. The funeral. That humiliating moment under the queen’s glare, Pippin hauling her back. Laban had been right there. He had seen her face, recognized Kael’s daughter in the midst of royal mourning, and said nothing until this morning. A familiar figure detached itself from the command tent, gliding towards them with that distinctive grace.

Griffith was approaching. And the fragile truce brokered by Owen’s partial revelations felt suddenly, terrifyingly inadequate. She remained quiet, caught in the crosscurrents of relief, suspicion, and unwelcome guilt over her earlier certainty about his motives.

“Sir Owen,” Griffith greeted him with a nod, his smile polite but brief, a necessary acknowledgment before turning to his true focus. His azure gaze settled on the Swordswoman. “Finished with your duties here?”

She felt Owen’s presence beside her keenly, a reminder of their conversation, of the truths and half-truths exchanged. The guilt reveberated. She had accused Griffith, raged at him, based on assumptions that were, apparently, incomplete. She kept her eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Griffith’s shoulder, unable to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” she managed, her voice subdued.

“Good,” Griffith said, his tone smooth, accepting her quietude without comment. “The command tent is being struck for the evening redistribution. You should move what little remains of your gear to my pavilion now. I managed to salvage a spare bedroll from the secondary supplies; I’ll take that. You can have the cot.”

His offer of the cot, the prime sleeping spot felt like a means to butter her up. It wrong-footed her again, making her earlier fury feel churlish. They began walking beside one another- keen not to touch, moving through the bustling camp towards the large, distinctively marked tent that served as Griffith's mobile headquarters. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sounds of the recovering army.

Finally, the pressure became too much. She cleared her throat, the sound small in the open air. “Griffith…” She paused, struggling for the words. “About earlier… my accusations about Laban’s request… I apologize.” The admission felt like swallowing stones, heavy and unpleasant, but necessary.

He glanced at her, and surprise had caught him before he wiped it away. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” His dismissal was effortles. “I told you it was the King’s decree, invoked by Laban. I knew you would eventually see the situation for what it was, without my needing to force the perspective.” He hadn't lied, not technically, but he had allowed her anger to run its course, knowing the facts, when revealed, would land with greater impact. He had let her discover it herself, maintaining his position of quiet authority and deeper knowledge, even in reconciliation.

"How long is this arrangement likely to last?"

Griffith glanced sideways, the setting sun gleaming in the azure of his eyes. "Until the next supply convoy arrives with replacement command tents. Could be a week. Could be a month, depending on Tudor movements along the supply lines and the King's priorities."

A month. The word hung in the air between them. A month of sharing this confined space, of unavoidable closeness, of navigating the treacherous territory they'd entered under the oak trees. Slow heat crept up her neck. She looked away, focusing intently on the rhythmic crunch of their boots on the path, suddenly finding the pattern of trodden grass fascinating.

Then, another question surfaced, nagging at the edges of her understanding. "Owen mentioned… you initially objected to Laban’s request for me to guard the command unit." She risked a glance at his profile, seeking confirmation. "Why? If you knew Laban… knew the potential connection?"

Griffith didn’t break stride. "Because, I knew how you would react. Being confined to a command post, guarding nobles while the main battle rages elsewhere. You'd feel caged. Pent up." He paused, letting the accurate, if unflattering, assessment land."And when I suspected Laban's insistence stemmed from his past ties to your father, I objected even more. It adds layers of complexity I couldn't predict or control. Placing you in the center of that felt unnecessarily risky."

"Understandable then." She concurred for a rare once.

He stopped just outside the entrance to his large, well-appointed tent. The canvas glowed warmly from the lantern light within finally facing to the darkness showing itself over the lands. "Now, circumstances have changed. Laban's motivations, Lord Lyle's scrutiny, the general instability after Julius' death… the safest place for you is close. Where I can ensure your protection directly." A faint, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. "Frankly, I don't trust the average Midland knight or even most of these noble commanders to adequately defend a potted plant, let alone someone as… prone to attracting trouble as you are."

"Fair point," she conceded quietly, turning away from him. Her attention snagged on the pitiful state of her bed roll, cloak, secondary sword and dagger. The scorched fabric, the pervasive smell of ash. It felt like a tangible representation of her own precarious situation. She picked it up, scowling as she tried to shake out the worst of the soot and smooth the stiffened wool, focusing intently on the futile task. It gave her something to do, something to look at besides the man sharing her enforced sanctuary.

Behind her, the distinct sounds began: the click and scrape of buckles being undone, the sigh of leather straps loosening, the soft thud of discarded pauldrons hitting a trunk lid. Griffith was removing his armor. Piece by piece, the barrier of polished steel that defined the White Hawk was coming down, leaving behind the man beneath. An involuntary tension coiled in her shoulders. She kept her back resolutely turned, fiddling with the cloak, pretending to inspect a particularly stubborn scorch mark, feigning difficulty in balancing her sword against the campaign table – anything to avoid acknowledging the intimacy of the sounds, the vulnerability inherent in shedding one's defenses.

"I'm going to the lake to wash off the grime of battle," Griffith's voice broke the silence, "The water will be cold, but it's necessary." She could almost feel his gaze on her back. "If you feel unsafe going alone later, given everything… you're welcome to come now. There's safety in numbers, even for bathing."

Her cheeks, already warm from their earlier proximity, felt blistering. The suggestion hung in the air, seemingly innocent, practical even, yet loaded with unspoken implications after everything that had transpired. Bathing. Together. Griffith had bathed in lakes and rivers alongside the entire Band countless times over the years. When they were younger, scrambling through streams after dusty spars, it hadn't meant anything more than rinsing off sweat and mud. There had been an easy camaraderie, an absence of sin born of shared hardship and childhood familiarity.

But things were different now. She was different. He was different. He wasn't the lean boy she’d wrestled with anymore; he was Griffith, the commander, sculpted muscle and unnerving grace, a man whose touch now ignited far more than simple friendship. The kiss. That brief pressure of his lips had irrevocably changed the landscape between them. The thought of seeing him stripped of his armor, of being near him in that state of vulnerability after that… it felt like bathing with her soul and secrets out from her body. Too intimate. She hadn't consciously bathed near him, not like that, since they were well into their teens, since the undeniable realities of their maturing bodies had erected invisible but potent barriers. She hadn't seen him fully unclothed since then.

"We haven't-" Her voice caught, forcing herself to turn and face him, needing to establish distance. He stood now only in his linen undershirt and breeches, his armor neatly stacked. Even partially clothed, the lean power of his build was evident. "...bathed together like that since we were young, Griffith."

He met her gaze, and it was too hard for her to read what was in them. He nodded slowly.

"True." He didn't press more than that. "If you feel uncomfortable, perhaps ask Casca to accompany you later. She’ll likely be heading down with some of the other women."

His easy acceptance somehow felt more cutting than persistence would have. It made her feel… childish. Unreasonable. Yet the boundary felt necessary. "Then why… why even suggest bathing together now?" she asked, needing to understand his reasoning, needing to know if it was another calculated move or simply thoughtlessness.

He seemed genuinely taken aback for a moment, a scoff slips from him as he parts tresses behind his ear. "Honestly? It didn't occur to me that it would be like that. Old habits, I suppose. Practicality. Thinking only of safety after the attack. My apologies." He didn't linger on the awkwardness. With a final, almost formal nod, he gathered a small bundle containing soap and linen.

"I won't be long."

He parted the tent flap and disappeared into the fading light, leaving her alone in the suddenly vast, shared space. It was going to be either a long week, or a very long month.

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