#judeau x reader

[rae-pss]

what if... what if JUDEAU enjoys it when his s/o gives him those silly tip-of-the-nose kisses.

like, you just go towards him and let your lips meet the tip of his freckled nose in a sweet, quick peck.

and he just gets a little embarrassed and, with that soft red tone now decorating his cheeks, he looks away.

[dollyslvttt]

Guts with a virgin village girl ✨🧚🏻‍♂️

NSFW

Cherry

2.1k words 

pairing: pre-eclipse guts x virgin village girl, f!reader

tags: set before eclipse, making out, rough s3x, softdom guts, fingering, virginity loss f! receiving 

Guts was the only one not having fun. The Band of the Hawk had set camp by a village and everyone was in the village in a pub, Guts included. But Guts was not a huge fan of alcohol, the way whoever drank it actually was like total fools. He was watching a very drunk Corkus trying to flirt with a table of girls. Then Corkus moved a bit to the side and he saw you. You were sitting at that table, giggling with your friends. As if sensing Guts looking, you looked over and made eye contact. Your eyes grew wide and you blushed. Guts thought to himself how cute you were. But that didn't truly sum up your beauty. You had beautiful hair, skin that glowed luminously even in the poor lighting of the pub, and the bodice of the dress you were wearing was tight across your breasts. ��That girl you’re looking at is  very pretty. You should go talk to her, Guts.” Judeau said, nudging Guts playfully. “No.” Guts looked back at the table. “What are you too shy? Don’t tell me that you haven’t been with a woman before?” Guts glared at Judeau’s stupid, very false remark. Guts had been with many women throughout his years of being a mercenary, and was very skilled in the bedroom, or most of the time, tent. Suddenly Guts heard his name. “That is Guts right there, the large bloke. He is verrrry not amazing.” It was Corkus still trying to drunkenly entertain the table of ladies. He seemed to be talking to you, gesturing wildly towards Guts. One of the girls beside you leaned in and whispered in your ear, looking back at Guts. You turned bright red and your expression grew troubled. Guts watched as you got up quickly put coins down on the table and went outside. Guts, now curious, waited about a minute and followed you out. 

⊹˚.  change of perspective ౨ৎ

After your friend had whispered in your ear that tall muscled man, Guts, looked like he had a big dick, you decided it was time to leave. You now leaning against the wall of the pub, relishing in how the brisk night air cooled your hot cheeks. “Hey.” You turned at the sound of the pub door, and there was Guts. Up close you could see how truly massive he was, six and half feet tall with corded muscles, covered in scars. But he was handsome, with harsh, defined features, definitely much better looking than any man living in the village. “H-hi.” You said shyly. “Your table were talking about me? What for?” Guts stepped out from the doorway. “Uh, uhm that man, uhm, Corkus, saw you look over and started talking and uh, he was just talking.” You wrung your hands together nervously. “I’m just messing with you because I enjoy your reaction.” You looked up at Guts who was looking down at you. “Huh?” Guts moved closer, only about a step away from you now. “Your face gets all red. It’s, uh, cute.” Now Guts was the one that seemed a bit embarrassed. He closed the distance between the two of you, towering over you. Your eyes widened at his close proximity. “I wanna kiss you.” You thought your heart might’ve stopped when he said that. “Uhm, yes, ok, yes.” Guts put his large hand on your cheek and brought his face to yours, pressing his lips against yours. He deepened the kiss and slid his hand onto your waist, sliding his tongue into your mouth. The way Guts kissed you was not gentle, his tongue tangling with yours as one big hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. His other hand was gripping onto your waist, his thumb stroking your side, making you shiver. Kissing Guts was very different from kisses you had shared with boys in the village before; rushed and inexperienced and only leading to your breasts being clumsily touched through your dress. Guts pulled back from the kiss, his full lips shiny with spit.

“Come with me to my tent. I want you.” Guts’ deep voice was strangled as he looked at you. When you nervously nodded, he took your hand, his much bigger one engulfing yours. He kept you close against him as you entered his camp. Looking at Guts’ huge frame had you thinking about what your friend had said concerning the size of what was in his pants. Now you were verynervous. You had never gone beyond clumsy groping, and the only things that had been inside you were your fingers. “This is my tent”, Guts said as he held open the flap for you, “Thankfully everyone is in the village so no one will hear.” Guts smiled as he secured the flap behind you. “So…about that. I’ve never done anything before.” Guts slowly turned toward you. “You’ve done nothing at all? Like you’re a… virgin?” You shallowly nodded, looking down at the ground. “Well, I’ll just have to make sure you’re extra ready for me. If you still want this, that is.”

Guts moved close to you and put his hands on your shoulder, slowly stroking with his thumbs. “I want this. I- I do! I’m just nervous, I don’t know how to do this.” Guts nodded at your words. “Don’t worry I’ll be the one in charge.” Guts moved you to his bed which was a small pallet covered in heaps of blankets. He sat and pulled you into his lap placing his hands on your hips. “I’m gonna unlace your dress.” Guts deftly unlaced your dress and corset, exposing your chemise. Shifting his hips to readjust how you sat, Guts kissed you again. At this this angle it was easier to have your hands on him, and you tangled you hand in his hair as he moved he mouth down your neck, making you gasp. “I- I wanna see you.” You gestured at his top. “Do you want me that bad?” Guts took off his top revealing his heavily muscled body that was covered in scars. You tentatively ran your hands down his chest, tracing scars and muscles. Guts breath came out heavier as you touched him.

“Fuck, I can’t wait any longer.” Guts growled as he manhandled your body, so now you were lying as he straddled you. “Can I take your dress off?” Guts was nipping and sucking his way to your exposed under-layers of clothing under your dress. “Y-yes.” Guts removed your dress and all other layers besides your flimsy chemise. He raked his eyes over you taking in your flushed face and the way you clenched your thighs trying to help with the aching between them. Guts kissed you roughly your chemise hiking up as he grabbed your hip with one hand while the other hand caressed your tits. Guts trailed open mouth kisses down to the neckline of your chemise and then pulled it down below your breasts. You gasped at the feeling of cold air on your hard nipples. Guts immediately took one nipple in his mouth while massaging your breast and other nipple. Guts’ warm wet mouth closed around your sensitive felt amazing and you let out a small moan. This spurred Guts on and he switched his mouth to your other breast, while also pressing the weight of his hips down between your thighs, and you could feel his form down there.

Guts drew back from you and slowly took your thin chemise off of you. His pupils expanded in lust at the sight of your fully naked body. You closed your thighs in embarrassment and he immediately opened them back up. “Fuck. Look how wet you are.” You squirmed under his hungry gaze. Guts looked you straight in the eyes as his fingers touched your clit. You whimpered at the sudden touch. Seeing that you wanted him to continue, Guts began to rhythmically rub on your wet swollen clit. You were squeezing around nothing which Guts noticed. You moaned as one of his large fingers went into your pussy. Slowly, Guts curled his finger inside you while he rubbed your clit. As your moans got louder and the pleasure of his experienced touching you increased, Guts inserted a second finger in and quickened his pace on your clit. You were getting close now, squelching noises and moans filling the tent. “You’re doing so good. You think you can take another finger?” Guts kissed you, swallowing your moans. “It’s- I’m already so full, ah!” Guts slowly put another finger in your tight pussy and you felt like you were so very close to cumming on his fingers. “I need you to be ready for my cock.” You were jerking your hips in small movements at the extreme pleasure. “Please- ahh! It’s so good! So- ahhhh- close!” Your mind was going hazy as you felt your orgasm approaching. With a loud moan you came, your pussy pulsing around Guts’ fingers. Your legs trembled as he finger fucked you through your orgasm. “Good girl. You did so good for me.”

Guts undid his belt and pulled off his pants and underwear. Now your mind was not at all hazy. His cock was long looking to be about 10 inches and curved slightly up. It was girthy and just all around big, with a dusky pink leaking tip. “Will it fit?” You concerningly looked at Guts. “I’ll make it fit.” Guts moved his cock in between your pussy lips coating himself in your slick. He grabbed your hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He kept his fingers placed in yours as he guided his tip to your entrance and ever so slowly pushed in. You hissed at the stinging as he slowly moved into you. Tears rolled down your face at the burning sensation, but the burning was slowly turning pleasurable. “Shh, it’s ok, you’re doing so good.” You felt Guts bottom out inside you and you thought you might die from the fullness you felt. Guts was breathing heavily, trying to restrain himself it seemed. He moved his hand from your hip to your lower stomach. “Look I can see me inside you.” You looked down to see the bulge of the imprint of Guts’ cock. He pressed down at the tip of the bulge and you whimpered as he gasped. “I’m gonna move now.” Guts pulled out and slowly moved back into you. You clenched around him instinctively and he hissed. “Fuck loosen up. You’re gonna strangle my dick.” You gave a strangled tearful laugh. Guts continued to slowly thrust in and out, a frustrated, concentrated look on his face. It was obvious he wanted to go faster, harder. “Guts”, He looked up at you, “You can go faster, I-I don’t want you to hold back because of me.” He smiled at this but stopped thrusting. “If you want me to stop or slow down you’re gonna have to tell me ok? Because when I fuck, I don’t do it like I was doing.” He squeezed your hand that he had been holding and moved it to also be on your hips. “I want you to fuck me, Guts.” That was all the confirmation he needed because Guts immediately thrusted into you hard. You moaned at his roughness, but that was only the start. Guts hips were snapping against yours as he thrusted, wet slapping noises filling the tent. You were moaning almost sobbing from how good it felt. Guts grunted and moaned quietly as he fucked you at a merciless pace. You were gripping onto his bedding as obscene noises came out of your mouth. You loudly whimpered when Guts started quickly rubbing your clit, while still fucking you like an animal. “I want you to cum with me- ah!” Guts’ pace was even faster and harder before and now you really were crying, it felt so intense. You came with a screaming moan, falling apart on Guts’ cock. Guts came with you moaning loudly as he shot his cum into you. You felt you so insanely full and came again from the aftershocks as Guts thrusting through his orgasm. He pulled out and pulled you into his arms. You didn’t even bother with anything, just immediately passed out. That morning when you woke, you were cleaned up but very sore. The sun shone through the tent and Guts was no where to be found. Your dress was folded neatly on the ground. You dressed quickly and stepped out of the tent only to run right into Guts. He was coated in sweat and shirtless. “Sleep good?” You blushed thinking of led to you sleeping like a dead person. “Yes thank you.” Guts nodded. “We are gonna stay here a few more weeks so maybe,” Guts leaned close and whispered in your ear, “I can fuck you to sleep again.” 

[missvaseline]

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 14 (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.

<-Previous Chapter

"Yeah, I figured," the Swordswoman replied, feigning something cavalier despite the thundering in her chest, as if Griffith's kisses were weather reports and not earthquakes that had shattered her foundations.

Judeau retrieved his dropped axe, "And you never kissed him before? Honestly, I'm surprised it wasn't sooner."

Before she could master her impulses, she jabbed an elbow into his ribs, a gesture so casually comradely it surprised even her. He chuckled, somehow warming the frost just a bit.

"What makes you think it would happen at all?"

"Well..." He exhaled slowly, "It's hardly been shadow work. He ensures you're always within arm's reach. Conspicuously so."

His eyes turned distant like he was flipping a book into the past, "Few months back, one of our fresh recruits, good swordsman, cocky. Mentioned his interest in you. Natural enough, I suppose, but Griffith overheard. Took precisely one day for that recruit to find himself reassigned to the vanguard. The battles rattled him so thoroughly he deserted before the moon turned."

Brows knit while her mind struggled to stitch the implications together. "Griffith is calculating, yes, but surely not that vindictive."

"I'd have agreed once, until the second occurrence. That one ended with scars he'll carry to his grave. I know because I overheard him demanding answers: why him, why always the front lines, why only him."

Her eyes narrowed. He wouldn't possess such knowledge without deliberate observation of Griffith's machinations. "Is that all?" she asked, voice tight.

"...and sharing a tent, practically dragging you from the field after even minor injuries, stationing me here as sentinel after one skirmish on this campaign. I could continue. I always believed Griffith's hunger was solely for the crown... however-"  He gave hints in his expression.

A seed of irritation bloomed in her chest, not merely because Judeau had been silently chronicling the currents between her and Griffith, but because his observations simultaneously kindled something dangerously like hope while sowing disgust at the fate of those unfortunate recruits.

"He wouldn't sacrifice everything he's built for me," she stated flatly. "Even if what you're suggesting holds truth."

Judeau sighed deeply, eyes closing briefly. He swallowed visibly before speaking again. "Agreed, but what for- I don't entirely know. I could be misreading everything. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here. Though I'd prefer not to find myself mysteriously reassigned to scouting Tudor's most lethal battalions."

"Right," She sighed. She had gathered cut chucks of wood, hoisting them over her shoulder to help Judeau. The walk back to camp was a silent accordion of crunching snow and distant camp clamor. They passed a cluster of knights huddled near a makeshift forge, their laughter dying as she approached. One, a barrel chested man with the crest of House Percival stitched into his cloak, spat into the snow.

“There goes the White Hawk’s pet. Does she fetch his firewood and his slippers?” His companions snorted, but their mirth withered when Judeau paused, turning to study the man.

“Careful, sir,” he said, hefting his axe. "You’re standing awfully close to the fire. Wouldn’t want your silks to catch.”

The knight stiffened, hand drifting to his sword, but Judeau was already moving, whistling a tavern tune as if the exchange had never happened.

The Swordswoman quickened her stride. “You shouldn’t provoke them,” she whispered, though gratitude warmed her voice.

“Provoke? I was offering fire safety advice.”  His grin faded as they rounded a supply cart. “But you’re right. Best not to linger.”

They reached the command quadrant, where Griffith’s tent stood.

“I’ll oversee the wood distribution,”

"Go on, going to gather my things and go to the lake." She nodded and he gave a brief smile before giving her the axe to put away and taking the wood that sat sore over her shoulder. She turned to place the axe away in the supply cart.

But rather than retreat immediately to Griffith's pavilion, she chose avoidance. The camp perimeter beckoned with its promise of solitude to breathe beyond the suffocating confines of politics and subliminal tides. She moved like the wind along the outskirts, checking defensive positions, nodding to sentries, finding comfort in the mundane tasks of security. Cookfires bloomed across the vast encampment like earthbound constellations, their smoke threading upward in columns. Soon she would have no excuse left to delay her return to the pavilion where unspoken tensions impatiently waited for her. As she paced the back of the nobles' tents, a sound sliced through the evening murmur- a sharp crack of flesh striking flesh, followed by a woman's muffled plea. The Swordswoman froze as she huddled to listen further at the supposed scuffles.

"Please, my lord, you're hurting me-"

"Shut your mouth. I paid good coin for you, and I'll have my money's worth."

The voice belonged to one of Percival's knights, of course, a burly man with a perpetually ruddy face and a reputation for meanness in his cups. Against the canvas of his tent, silhouettes played out a grim scene. Without conscious decision, the dueler moved. She took long stride around to the tent flap just as another blow landed, catching the woman across her cheekbone. The mistress stumbled backward, a trickle of blood beading at the corner of her mouth, her eyes shaped into circles. She was young. Younger than should be possible in this brutal world, with dark hair tumbling loose from elaborate pins.

"Think you're too good for-"

His words died as the Swordswoman's hand shot out, seizing his wrist mid-swing with a grip like iron. The sudden intervention startled him, alcohol-dulled reflexes failing to respond as she twisted, using his own momentum to shove him away from the mistress. He staggered, nearly losing his footing.

"What the-" Recognition dawned in his bloodshot eyes. "You. The Hawk bitch. This doesn't concern you."

The duelist stepped fully between him and the trembling woman without a second thought.

"Touch her again, and I'll remove your offending hand. Slowly, starting with each finger joint. A digit for every tear she's shed." She stared at him, failing to blink "And if you think your noble lord will protect you, remember- I don't care about gutting him either."

Something in her expression penetrated his drunken state. She watched his earlier courage sink into a limp puddle.

"Mad savage," He stepped back, "Keep the whore then. Probably diseased anyway."

He retreated into the shadows between tents with muttered curses and the occasional stumble, dignity in tatters. The Swordswoman turned to find the mistress straightening her disheveled clothing, trembling fingers attempting to re-pin her fallen hair. A livid mark was darkening on her cheek.

"Thank you,"  she breathed, wincing as her probing fingers found the edge of the forming bruise.  "I thought... well, it doesn't matter what I thought. You stopped him." Then, curiosity blossomed in her, "Are you one of those female mercenaries I've heard whispers about? Or are you..."

The Swordswoman paused, the question awkward in the way it landed. "I'm a mercenary,"

The woman's eyes widened. "Oh! I've seen you coming and going from the silver-haired commander's tent. The handsome one, with the eyes like winter sky."  With a smile that transformed her battered face into something unexpectedly lovely, she added, "He seems like a catch anyway, huh?"

Crickets croaked between them where what should've been was their shared laughter. The comfort woman's smile faltered under that steady gaze.

"Well, I'm Elara. From the western provinces originally." She offered a small, formal curtsy despite her dishevelment. "Thank you again for intervening. He would have- well, it would have been much worse."

In the flickering torchlight that illuminated the path between tents, Elara's bruise appeared almost black against her pale skin.

"Does this happen often?" she asked, gesturing toward the retreating knight's path. "With the Midland soldiers?"

Elara's eyes dropped, her fingers absently tracing the darkening mark on her cheek.

"More often than not, Some are merely rough, others..."

She left the sentence unfinished.

A disgusted grunt escaped the Dueler's throat. In the shifting torchlight, she took fuller measure of Elara. Features that might have graced a noblewoman's portrait in another life. Even with the bruise marring her skin, there was a beauty to her, the kind that attracted attention, both welcome and otherwise.

"How did you end up here?"

“My family carries three generations of debt to the crown. Unpaid taxes from drought years. When the collectors came, they offered alternatives. My parents, my siblings…” She straightened, chin tilting upward. “I chose this.”

Of course. The king’s greed was a serpent, always shedding its skin but never its venom. Elara wore her father’s failures like heirloom shackles, polished, perhaps, but no less heavy.

“You understand you may never return?” she said, sharper than intended. “This campaign devours lives. Yours will be no exception.”

“I’ve made peace with that.”

Peace. The women here bore scars no banner would ever honor. Returning “home” meant trading battlefield grime for a slim paid debt. Glory for men, shame for women. Both currencies of Midland’s making.

“Don’t let them bend you,” the Swordswoman breathed, stepping closer. “Not the knights, not the nobles, not even your own ghosts. You fight a different war, but it’s no lesser. Remember that when they treat you like chaff. You are stone.”

She turned to leave, the camp’s stench of sweat and rusted armor suddenly suffocating. Midland’s nobility were crows, picking at the edges of suffering-

“Wait. Please.” Elara’s voice frayed. The Swordswoman froze, glancing back. “The lake…” Elara twisted her skirt in her palms, fabric groaning under her grip. “When we bathe, the knights- they follow. Watch. Sometimes… more.” Her throat bobbed. “Would you stand guard? Or even… join us? They fear you. Your presence alone might…”

The Swordswoman went very still. “They stalk you there?”

Elara’s silence was answer enough.

“Fine” the Swordswoman said abruptly.

Relief crumpled Elara’s stiff posture, as if someone had cut the strings holding her upright. “We gather by the storage tents. Behind the nobles’ pavilions.”

The dueler gave a curt nod. “I’ll bring my blade. I need to also collect my things from the pavilion first. Soap, towel..."

"I'll inform the others. We'll wait by our quarters. Meet us there when you're ready?"

The Swordswoman nodded again, but as Elara turned to leave, there was a snag to her presence. It felt better to be sure she'd at least make it to her tent now that the dueler had seen just how hungry the midland knights could get. Without comment, she fell into step beside the mistress. Elara appeared surprised, only for a smile to warm her face. They traversed the narrow paths between tents while the Swordswoman's hand rested casually on her dagger hilt as a quiet warning to the eyes that followed their pace from shadowed entryways.

When they reached the women's quarters, Elara paused and then murmured,

"Thank you"

The Swordswoman bowed her head to her, then retraced her steps through the maze of canvas and rope toward Griffith's pavilion. She's doing a disservice to serve Midland. To herself, her blood, and to others she had yet to even meet. A schooled scowl remained over her as if needing it to ward off any simmering interest towards herself until she slipped inside the pavillion. The emptiness within it was expected. Griffith would be occupied with strategy councils until well after midnight. She moved to her corner of the tent, where her sparse personal possessions were arranged. Kneeling, she retrieved her rough-hewn soap and the threadbare linen that served as her towel, tucking them into a small leather pouch along with a clean undershirt to sleep in.

As she rose, a something clung to the corner of her eyes. On his campaign desk, normally neat and bare these nights, held a book, splayed open, its pages catching the soft glow of the oil lamp that burned low beside it. Well, that's different. Griffith rarely left anything in disarray, and never his reading materials, which he guarded with the same careful attention he gave to his weapons and armor. She glanced instinctively toward the tent entrance, confirming she was alone, then approached the desk with cautious steps.

The volume lay open, its pages illustrated with ink drawings rendered in exquisite, meticulous detail. Her eyes narrowed, then widened as recognition dawned. Her body stiffened, a sudden heat flooding her face as she processed what she was seeing.

It was an eastern text of carnal knowledge- but not the crude, bawdy versions sometimes passed among soldiers. This was clearly a scholarly edition, bound in tooled leather, its pages of fine vellum covered with elegant script surrounding the explicit illustrations. Bodies intertwined in positions both familiar and seemingly impossible, rendered with an artist's careful attention to musculature and proportion. She glanced sharply over her shoulder, half-expecting to find Griffith watching her discovery yet the air was still. That was when she dared to step closer, allowing herself to truly examine the book's whispers. Her fingers hovered over the pages, afraid that the day's dirt gathered on her fingers would leave guilty markings. The open spread depicted a man and woman locked in an embrace that seemed to require both flexibility and considerable strength, their faces captured in expressions of ecstasy that made her throat bone dry. She turned a page, then another, each illustration more elaborate than the last. In some drawings, the woman was clearly dominant, controlling the man and sex with confident power; in others, she yielded completely to her partner's guidance. The Swordswoman's breath came faster now, her skin prickling with awareness. Why would Griffith have this?

Why the hell is he reading this now? While they shared this canvas sanctuary? While they danced around unspoken tensions and stolen glances?

The conclusion was enough to make her take unnoticed steps back. she contemplated not even bringing it up to him at all. Surely, this must've been a mistake. A soldier must've snuck through- feasting their eyes over stolen pages, it only made sense with how perversive they seemed. She turned, gathering her bathing supplies with efficient haste. The promise made to Elara provided a perfect excuse to flee the pavilion's increasingly oppressive atmosphere. The thought of the lake's open shore, even in winter's grip, seemed suddenly preferable to these canvas walls that felt more like a trap with each passing moment.

Without a backward glance, she ducked through the tent flap into the night air. Outside, the cold was present but natural. the honest chill of approaching winter rather than the unnerving, bone-deep frost that had invaded the pavilion. She drew a deep breath, steadying herself, then set off with purposeful strides toward the comfort women's quarters.

The campaign was the only thing that mattered, getting out alive, doing her duties and getting her revenge for her father. Some part of her was thankful that she was protecting these nobles. It looked better in the king's eyes. At least until his final moments when he would be killed by her hand or Griffith's. Her eyes narrowed at the thought. In fact, this makes more sense than anything else that Griffith would do. Position themselves in favorable light until the very end.

She pushed these thoughts aside, focusing instead on her promise to Elara and the others. The women's quarters buzzed with activity as the Swordswoman approached. Elara stood outside, surrounded by five other women, their faces brightening when they spotted her advancing through the shadows. Their expressions shifted from wariness to something resembling awe- an unexpected reaction that made the Swordswoman's stride falter momentarily.

"She came," Elara announced, pride coloring her voice.  "Just as she promised."

The women regarded her with loud fascination, their eyes had seen knights, nobles, and commanders, but a woman warrior was a rarity that stirred in them beyond curiosity. It was admiration.

"The female Hawk," whispered one of them, a willowy blonde with clever eyes.

"They say you've killed thirty men in single combat."

"I heard it was fifty," murmured another, her accent marking her as Northern.

The Swordswoman stirred uncomfortably under their reverent gazes.

"There is more than just me. Casca and Mule..." She drifted as she searched the women's eyes to realize they hadn't even met the rest of the Hawks, nor did it seem like her modesty was getting through to them. "We should go," she said gruffly, heat crawling up her neck. "Before it grows later."

The mistresses gathered their meager bathing supplies, and buckets. Then they fell into step around her like a strange honor guard. One of them, a robust, practical-looking woman with auburn hair coiled in a tight braid, carried a large pot.

"Marielle always thinks ahead,"  Elara explained, nodding toward the pot-bearer while she carried her own. "She'll heat water for rinsing. Makes all the difference in this cursed cold. No worries, we have a bucket for you"

"Smart, especially with winter tightening its grip. It's appreciated" The swordswoman acknowledged.

It was surprisingly pleasant pacing with them. Their chatter flowed like a gentle current that seemed at least somewhat interesting. They were smoke through the camp, skirting cookfires and guard posts, slipping between tent ropes. It was a shame to hide amongst allies. By the lake, Marielle knelt to strike flint. Sparks leapt, catching dry tinder, and flames unfurled with a crackle-hiss while the others arranged buckets in a half-circle.

"Edgar is the worst of them," the Northern woman, Thea, she'd introduced herself, commented while dropping her bucket beside crackling flames under iron. "Always wanting to leave marks where they'll show. It's deliberate, like he's branding cattle."

Elara’s snort cut through the steam rising from her bucket. She cupped icy lake water to her face, flinching as it met the plum dark bruise blooming on her cheekbone. “Percival’s subtler. Waits until you’re half-drowned in silk cushions to play his games.” Her fingers lingered at her throat, where faint fingerprints lingered like ghostly lace

"It's all politics with these men. Even in bed, they're fighting their little wars. Lyle's the only decent one among them," Marielle called from where she tended the heating water.

"Never touches us, but makes sure we're fed properly. Even stopped Sir Gareth from taking Thea when she was feverish last month."

The Swordswoman's head snapped up, "Lyle?" she muttered, disbelief coloring the name. "The same Lord Lyle who makes everything sound like a proposition?"

"Oh, he does," Nessa confirmed with a chuckle, "but he's not after what you think. At least from my experience."

"He's never requested any of us. Not once. The other lords call him 'bloodless' behind his back."

Elara said as she began to tip her bucket in the pot for hot water.  By now the women werein a line to get steaming buckets, only to settle on the bank where they began to undress. Though it was out of place, the dueler found her modesty taking hold, gathering hot water for herself and turning away from the women to undress.

"Bloodless?" The Swordswoman frowned.

"Some men simply aren't driven by those appetites,"

Marielle explained, returning with the heated water and pouring it carefully over her shoulder, sighing in relief.

"Lyle's passion is for intrigue, for knowing secrets. Not for bedding women for that matter. In fact, I heard from another mistress back in Wyndham that the queen had a long affair with Julius and that his death was covered up by the king from jealousy."  She whispered and scoffed, "and not only that. She had multiple affairs."

Well, that is the perfect diversion for the true culprit and purpose. It was possible his interest was indeed analytical rather than carnal, no less unnerving. She knows to guard her secrets around the man.

"How does he get all this information?" She asked, wondering how falsity is speculated.

"Mentioned that the queen fell suspicious of the king, but he also mentioned that she was privy to having men from military within her chambers- men tend to spill secrets and gossip more than we ever think."

Thea said. The swordswoman grunted with narrow eyes. "Well, I know what glitters isn't so gold. The midland monarch seem to have inherented scandals left and right"

"Happens with monarchy many times, of course." Elara chimed.

Marielle poured warm water down Thea's back, drawing a contented sigh. "They say Queen Charlotte's first lover was a common soldier. Got her with child during the spring equinox celebrations."

Elara paused in wringing out her dark hair. "My cousin served in the palace kitchens. Swore she saw the queen wrapping a stillborn in embroidered linen from her own bedchamber."

The Swordswoman kept her back to the group. She was keen to their conversation and didn't want to seem like she was far too interested.

Nessa snorted. "The real scandal was General something... I don't remember his name. Before your time, but they say he refused the queen's advances during the Brynhold campaign. She had him stripped of rank. Poetic justice when Tudor bandits killed him years later."

Ice needled through the Swordswoman's veins. She already had enough supply of hatred for the king, but she suspects she'll feel hatred for the queen soon enough.

"Kael?" The swordswoman asked, against her instinct.

"Ah, yes. Do you know of the tale?" Nessa asked as she glanced at the woman. "Heard a bit of it, but thats all. Do you happen to know more?"

"Lord Lyle knows more about it." T hea murmured, wringing lavender oil through her hair. "He paid Giselle three gold after she repeated Duke Reginald's sleep-talking. Something about poisoned hunting arrows."

The swordswoman grunted in reply, her expression unreadable as her thoughts churned. She’d expected uncovering royal secrets to be like sifting needles from a haystack. Instead, she’d stumbled into a labyrinth of truths deeper than she’d ever imagined. No wonder Griffith navigates politics so effortlessly, she mused. The answers had been glaringly obvious, yet hidden in plain sight. Now, her attention sharpened on Lyle, whose knowledge stretched beyond her assumptions. She bit her tongue, wary of craving more than she could safely digest. Already, the nobles’ scrutinizing gazes and the weight of their company unsettled her but this gnawing urge to probe Lyle about her father eclipsed it all. Laban and Owen’s accounts had once felt sufficient. Now, they seemed mere fragments of a story only Lyle could complete.

The bucket’s lingering warm water clung to their skin as they rinsed to rid themselves of soap sudds. What had begun as a perfunctory ritual had stretched into something fragile and sacred, the kind of silence that pooled between them not as absence, but as solidarity. They slipped into their sleeping garments and then Thea broke the silence while fastening her frayed sash, “Three weeks,” she said, yanking the knot tight. “That’s how long since we last washed without some chivalrous fool, stumbling upon’ the women’s bathing area. Yesterday, Sir What’s-His-Spur spent ten minutes ‘admiring the moonlight’ through the goddamned alder branches.”

Elara laughed. She didn’t look up from lacing her boots, but her hands stilled.  “You’re being unfair, Thea. Last Tuesday’s knight was very creative. Claimed he mistook our towels for siege banners.” Her gaze lifted then, finding the Swordswoman’s and the humor died in her eyes, “It’s not mockery that stops them now. It’s you.”

The Dueler's throat tightened. She recognized the weight settling beneath her ribs. Not just fury at the men’s boldness, but shame, too. How many times had she dismissed camp women as part of the scenery, their vulnerabilities as unremarkable as tent stakes or latrine ditches? Thea tossed her a threadbare drying cloth.

“Don’t look so grim. Today, the water stayed clean. No grime, no leers. Small victories, right?” Small. The word gnawed at her. That a single bath unmarred by violation should feel like a triumph.

They walked back through the pines, the comfort women drifting nearer until their shoulders brushed hers. Not deference, she realized, but the tentative proximity of deer edging toward a campfire. At the quiltslashed entrance to their quarters, Elara hesitated. Her calloused fingers grazed the Swordswoman’s wrist, fleeting.

“You’ll come back?” she asked, and it wasn’t a question about baths. The plea hung between them: Stay. See us. Remember we’re here.

The Swordswoman’s nod came too quickly. “When I can.”

The return trek to command’s pavilion felt foreign, as if the camp itself had shifted in her absence. The overlapping guffaws of off-duty knights curdled in her ears. You knew, she accused herself. You just never let it matter before. She nearly missed the pavilion entirely, her mind adrift in the storm of Elara's gratitude and Thea’s performative spite. When she finally shouldered through the tent flap, craving the numb sanctuary of her cot, the air changed.

Oil lamps glowed.

Griffith had his bare back turned to her as his eyes stilled over his wardrobe. Perfect in proportion, sculpted by some divine hand for the express purpose of making mortals ache at the sight. Scars traced delicate patterns across his shoulders and ribs, not marring but somehow enhancing his perfection, telling stories of battles survived, pain transcended. The book's illustrations flashed unbidden through her mind, superimposing themselves over the reality before her with jarring vividness. Heat bloomed across her skin despite the chill that still lingered in the pavilion's air. She remained motionless, caught between retreat and acknowledgment, her body seemingly incapable of either. She took a reflexive step back, the tent flap whispering against her shoulders. Griffith stilled at the sound, then turned as if he'd been anticipating this exact moment.

"I heard you enter. Please, come in. No need to hover at the threshold."

She remained motionless, caught between conflicting impulses, her eyes betraying her with a quick, glance toward the desk where the Karma Sutra had been. The surface lay bare, meticulously organized, no trace of sin anywhere. Quite the opposite now.

"How was your bath with the mistresses?"

Her head snapped up, "How did you-"

"Judeau mentioned it," Griffith interrupted, looking at his trunk and then closing it. "He saw you escorting them to the lake. Rather gallant of you."

Of course. Judeau's placement near the command center, his watchful eye was not just protection but surveillance. A faithful report delivered to Griffith about her movements, her associations, perhaps even her conversations.

"It was... nice," she answered after a pause.

Griffith moved to unfurl his bedroll beside the cot. As he knelt, arranging the blankets, she realized with a jolt that he intended to sleep without his shirt, his torso still bare in the lamplight. The only thing dressed on his upper half was the red egg he was always intent on wearing.

"That's unwise," she blurted, gesturing toward his exposed skin. "The night grows bitter. You'll freeze without proper covering."

He glanced up with amusement, "My clothes are drying after washing," he explained, smoothing a wrinkle from the bedroll.

"It's not unusual for me. The body adapts." She felt heat creeping up her neck as she tried to avoid staring at the lean muscle of his shoulders.

"Take the cot tonight," she offered abruptly, desperation bleeding into her voice. "I'll use the bedroll. The ground retains some warmth, at least."

"I couldn't possibly," he demurred, "You worked hard today. You need proper rest."

She knelt by her belongings, fingers digging through folded linens with unnecessary force. The spare shirt emerged from the pile. She thrust it toward Griffith without meeting his eyes.

"Here. It's clean."

He accepted the garment, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sparked a current that traveled up her arm, settling uneasily in her chest. "Your chivalry is unexpected,"

he remarked, draping the shirt over his shoulders but not yet fastening it. The lamplight traced the arc of his collarbone, casting shadows that seemed to map territories she’d sworn not to explore.

She crossed to the cot, her back to him. "It’s practicality. A leader with frostbite is useless."

A low laugh slipped from him. "Always so dutiful. Tell me, did the mistresses appreciate their guardian? Or do they mistake your vigilance for something softer?"

The question froze her mid-motion. She turned slowly, finding his gaze sharp despite the languid pose. "They deserve dignity. Even here."

"Ah. And you’ve appointed yourself their champion. How noble." He buttoned the shirt slow. The words should have been praise. From him, they sounded like a trap.

She bristled. "You disapprove?"

"Not at all." He smiled, "Its chilvarous." Griffith's fingers paused on the third button of her borrowed shirt. "Their plight seems to trouble you.Tomorrow, I'll station two Hawks at the lakeside during bathing hours. Veterans who understand discretion."

The Swordswoman froze "You'd spare men for that?"

"Not spare. Repurpose. Our new recruits need lessons in perimeter vigilance. This serves both purposes."

She studied the careful slope of his shoulders and the distance he kept. "Thank you."

The silence had sat with them. Griffith finally turned with the lamplight gilding his profile. "You should rest."

They moved through the nightly ritual like familiar partners, her rolling onto the cot facing the canvas wall, him lying precisely a handspan beyond the bedroll's edge after he blew out the lamp. The cold between them felt alive, breathing.

"Someone disturbed my desk earlier," he murmured into the dark.

Her knuckles whitened on the blanket. "Oh?" shit. She remembered she turned it back to the correct page.

"The book from Lord Percival's collection lay open where I hadn't left it. Curious, given our thief's usual discretion."

Or she was wrong and had hallucinated such a thing.

Her heart began to sprit in her chest. "Didn't touch it. Could've been the wind." A rustle of linen sounded as he shifted.

"Strange. I'd thought perhaps you'd taken interest in its educational diagrams."

Her cheeks burned."Why would I?"

"I mean I found it more useful for understanding our enemy's distractions. Though truthfully, I had it for Charlotte." he added after a timely pause.

For Charlotte was a word that plagued her more than sickness at this point.The Swordswoman exhaled slowly. Of course. Everything weaponized, even intimacy. "Okay, I lied. Burn it."

"Its already hidden" Sheets whispered as he sat up. "Though I'll admit curiosity, what page caught your eye? The lotus position? The waterfall embrace?"

She spun to face him, outrage masking her features, "The one where the woman breaks her partner's nose with a knee strike."

His laugh bloomed warm and unexpected. "Ah, that's something that suits you."

For some reason, that had her clearing her throat. "Did it plenty of times." She attempted to joke.

He sighed as his laugh petered out. After a bit of silence, something tugged in her to ask about monarch gossip. Griffith knows more than he ever says but she could possibly appease him to tell her more of his plans.

"Apparently mistresses know plenty of things. About the monarch. They told me about the queen having affairs and Lyle knowing a lot more." She muttered.

"Did you ask them that or did they simply speak it?"

"They just told me."

“I see. When did they?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “While we were bathing. Why?”

“The queen’s dalliance is hardly a secret. Curious they’d discuss it outside camp.”

“To avoid Midland knights, I’d guess.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, sinking onto the bedroll.

Silence stretched until his breathing deepened, steady and rhythmic. his back turned to her, silver hair spilling over the rough pillow. Asleep already. She stifled a sigh. The darkness hid her restless eyes, sparing her the temptation to watch him. Judeau’s words coiled in her mind. But why couldn’t it be mutual? It was mutual. She knew it, even as she buried the truth beneath duty. She loved him, for years she had. Separating after this-resuming their roles, would feel like severing a limb. Had he insisted on sharing this tent because it might be their last chance? Yet he’d dismissed the notion outright. Unless… Her throat tightened. Was this his way of seizing an affair? Griffith, who wielded charm like a blade but recoiled from vulnerability. Now the mistresses proclomation of nearly every noble, even the queen herself, having an affair felt like being surrounded by the disease of sin. Griffith surely wasn't immune to it. Griffith, whose discipline rivaled his ambition. Had he ever had intercourse or an affair? Her thoughts snagged, heat pricking her cheeks. That damned book. It had wedged doubt into cracks she’d refused to acknowledge. She clenched her jaw, shut her eyes, and willed the questions to dissolve.

Next Chapter-> To be Announced

[pinkkunt-imagines]

The Failed Step Attempt

A/N: Wrote this on a timer in 30 minutes just now. Hope a little quickie with Judeau can satisfy our horny hearts. Also, again wrote this in 30 minutes, so if it sucks sorry. 🤣

Step Two: ‘Forget’ that he’s in the shower and join him.

It wasn't supposed to happen THIS fast. She was just supposed to shower with him, not get her print fucked into a wall. But she sure didn't mind the early results.

Closed in-between a brick wall and a blonde, the situation couldn't get any better. With each thrust her back scrapped against the surface, Judeau's mouth catching the lewd moans as the two exchanged saliva. It feels so good to finally have him inside of her, but she needs more; she needs to feel him more. So, she motions her hips to meet his, and the outcome is heavenly. Their hips now snapping wildly together, the sound bouncing throughout the empty bathhouse.

She breaks the kiss, throwing her head back against the wall and crying out, "J-Judeau!!! Shit! Ah!"

His green eyes took in the sight, and his ears savored how sweet his name rolled off her tongue. That was all he needed.

"[N-Name], I'm gonna…"

Judeau's hands gripped at her ass harder, pace quickening, and cock sliding in and out of her velvety folds. She tilted her head down, eyes slimmed from pleasure and locking onto one another. Both were an open-mouthed moaning mess.

Toes curling, nails digging into his shoulder blade, and moaning his name in a mantra, [Name] became undone on his dick. She pulsed and throbbed against his stiff cock, pushing him to his own release. With one last thrust, he grunted, pulling her down and stuffing her pussy with his cock and cum.

The two rested their heads on one another, both content and still panting.

She smiled, "So...round two?"

[thewinterwaifu]

Hello hope u are doing well! Can I please request pre-eclipse Griffith and Judeau settling down for the night to sleep with their s/o after a long day at the battle of Doldrey? Would be interesting to see their night routine after such a feat, especially with their beloved. Thanks!!!

YOU ARE VERY VALID!!!SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG HERE U GO

Griffith:

•He was quite confident they would win, in all honesty. He trusts in his tactics and his soldiers!Still, that doesn't mean he isn't going to celebrate the victory!

•As he holds you in his arms, he plays with your hair, praises you for how well you did at the battle. He can't wait to fulfil his dream with you, to have you by his side when he is on top of the world

•"Now now, you need a good rest my love~, go to sleep~" he says, still cuddling you. You need to recover after all!He even rubs your back or keeps playing with your hair if that helps you fall asleep!

•The next morning, he finds himself wanting to stay with you, cuddling and oversleeping. He never indulges himself with that kind of thing, wanting to get up and work towards his goal but...you are so cute and yesterday was such a hard day...He can make an exception just today, staying a while more to hold you on his arms

Judeau:

•He is just...so grateful that you both made it. He would never forgive himself if you had died on his watch!As such he may be extra cuddly (which is saying a lot because he is already really cuddly) tonight

•He will shower you in kisses and tell you just how much he loves, how he adores every little thing about you and how happy you always make him

•Judeau promises himself not to fall asleep before you, to watch over you and make sure you are safe. However...after the battle he is real tired and probably passes out in your arms soon after you start cuddling, your embrace helping him relax since he feels so safe and loved

•When he wakes up, there is a huge smile on his face as he sees you. He really can't believe he is such a lucky man, that he out of everyone is the guy that takes to date you!

[jacks-obsessions]

Hey, I don't think they've ever talked about him, but it's true that Judeau deserves everything. I would give that man pleasure whenever he wanted.

Judeau really deserved better. He's not a rough lover, in fact he enjoys being a soft dom. Gently guiding your hips as you ride him, soft passionate kisses, but if you want him to be rough he can be rough. He's the king of aftercare.

[rae-pss]

JUDEAU looks like he'd love to receive some head massages and has his hair combed while he rests his head in a lap...

[missvaseline]

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 7 (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.

Previous: Chapter 6

The swordswoman set her utensils down with theatrical calm. a performance that deceived no one, while Casca surged to her feet. The bench scraped backward with a sound like bones breaking beneath a torturer's attentions. She pushed through the stunned Hawks with the authority of command, her footfalls striking the floorboards like measured heartbeats in the suddenly airless room.

"What happened?" Casca's voice dropped to a dangerous hiss that slithered beneath the collective held breath of the tavern. Guts remained motionless, something dark pooling beneath his boots in widening coronation. Not water. Something thicker, more final. When he finally spoke, his voice emerged as though scraped over gravel, hollowed and raw, as if whatever midnight confession he'd witnessed had flayed something essential from his throat. "Where is he?"

The question carried across the room with unnatural clarity, piercing the space between them to find the swordswoman among the Hawks, bypassing Casca entirely despite her physical proximity.

"At Charlotte's dinner party, why?" The swordswoman answered, rising from her seat with a measured caution

Something traversed Guts' face then a shadow deeper than concern, darker than dread. His eyes flickered briefly to the watching Hawks. In that wordless exchange, the swordswoman felt knowledge pass between them, a burden so ponderous it might fracture the strongest spine.

"I need to speak with him," he stated flatly while refusing elaboration as the crimson pool beneath his feet widened, not mere splatter but saturation, as though he'd waded through some baptismal lake of blood. "Alone,"

Guts was already turning toward the door, his colossal sword leaving a trail of viscous darkness across the ancient floor long stained with the lesser currencies of spilled ale and forgotten oaths.

Casca's face hardened to flint, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth as she snatched her cloak from a rusted hook without seeking permission. Her movements contained no hesitation, only the fluid economy of one who had long ago made darkness her familiar.

"Stay here," she commanded the Hawks with the unassailable authority of Griffith's second, her voice permitting no challenge. When the wooden door slammed shut behind them, speculation erupted like flame touching oil. Whispers multiplied, hungry and fearful, around the tavern's hearth. Rickert looked between the older Hawks with eyes wide as new moons, sensing the tectonic shift beneath the surface of their world. He spoke the swordswoman's name, tentative as a prayer whispered in a forgotten temple, making her reluctantly raise her gaze to meet his. The boy's eyes were still untarnished by the years that had polished all softness from the rest of them and they sought answers she was not certain she possessed.

"Is the Band in danger?" The question hung suspended in the amber light, a mote caught between breaths. Across the room, Pippin moved with the deliberate grace that belied his massive frame, positioning himself protectively near the younger members

"I'm not sure," she said, settling back onto the bench with deliberate slowness, as though sudden movements might shatter some invisible equilibrium. Each word emerged precisely chosen, weighed like gold on a merchant's scale. "I've kept my distance from Griffith lately."

Judeau studied her profile with eyes that calculated distance, trajectory, intent. The same eyes that never missed when steel left his fingers.

"That's unusual," Judeau pitched his voice for her ears alone as the other Hawks resumed their drinking with forced gaiety, their laughter too sharp, too brittle, as if volume might somehow drown the approaching footsteps of fate. "Whatever Guts was involved in tonight, it wasn't ordinary violence,"  Judeau continued softly, "Not even for him."

Across the scarred oak table, Corkus drained another tankard, his earlier boisterous mood curdling into something brittle and sharp edge. His glance kept returning to the door where Guts and Casca had vanished, each look carrying more resentment than the last, as though the portal itself had somehow betrayed him.

"Means trouble for all of us," he muttered, loud enough to carry beyond his immediate circle, "not just the White Hawk."

Rickert slid closer on the bench, seeking reassurance from the woman who'd outlasted nearly all others in the Band. His youth made him dangerous in ways swords never could, too earnest to dissemble, too observant to easily mislead, too innocent to recognize the precipice they balanced upon. "Is this why you've been training alone more?"

he asked with unvarnished directness, innocently exposing her changed behavior to any with ears to hear. What had grown between them was something she'd thought would provide excuse enough... but suddenly it felt like a lie she'd been telling herself through countless dawns spent with only her blade for company.

"I didn't want to get in the way of anything," she said, the half truth sticking in her throat, "My mission is to take back my father's honor."

But even as the words left her lips, she recognized the hollowness of this childhood oath, long since desiccated in the mire of what the Band of the Hawk had become. She had evolved beyond that child's vow, just as she'd evolved beyond blind loyalty to the White Hawk's dreams of empire. She realized, with sudden clarity, she was no different than the average mercenary. She was a doll outgrown and set aside, still performing the motions of devotion after the heart had fled.

"Your father would be proud of what you've accomplished with the Hawks,"Though, Judeau's gaze penetrated the armor of her half-truths with the precision of a master surgeon who knows exactly where the vital organs lie."We're all part of something greater now,"

Rickert added with the fervent conviction only possible in those who haven't yet watched dreams corrode beneath the acid rain of reality. He gestured to the Hawk emblems they all wore, bright against dark leather like stars against night sky. "Griffith is going to change everything for Midland... for all of us."

The Hawks nearby raised their tankards in silent affirmation, their faith in their silver-haired leader unshaken despite the ominous arrival of their blood-soaked champion minutes earlier. Their devotion remained intact, pristine as virgin snow that hasn't yet felt the stain of crimson truth.

Corkus snorted wetly into his ale, froth clinging to the jagged corners of his lips. "Father's honor or not, we're all bound to the White Hawk's dream now," he declared with drunken certainty, unaware of how prophetic his words might prove. "Whatever was done tonight, Griffith will turn it to advantage. He always does."

Her eye twitched, jaw clenched tight enough to send pain radiating through her temples as she felt the weight of the Band's blind convictions pressing upon her like a burial shroud.

"You are bound to it," she said, each word falling like a blade striking stone, sparks flying in the darkness. "I choose not to be. I know Griffith enough to recognize he is a person rather than the god you are raising him to be." She scoffed, crossing her arms- a shield against their judgments more effective than steel. "I respect him for what he is, not for what I want him to be."

Corkus's expression contorted in a journey from shock to outrage, mouth opening and closing without sound, like a fish plucked from water and suddenly confronted with the alien concept of air. His face flushed crimson, the veins in his neck standing proud as mountains on a map as he slammed his drink down, ale sloshing over the rim in amber waves.

"Not some god?" he repeated incredulously, the words strangled as though she'd committed blasphemy in a cathedral. "The man lifted us from nothing, made us knights from gutter rats!"

Hawks murmured in agreement, casting wary glances at the swordswoman as if her words might somehow reach Griffith's ears across the city, as if she'd invoked some curse that might bring their collective dreams crashing down. Rickert's expression registered as confusion tinged with hurt, unable to reconcile her statement with the reverence he held for their leader, while Pippin's granite features remained unreadable, though his massive hands tightened noticeably around his tankard, wood creaking in protest.

"Knowing him longest means seeing him before the legend formed," A statement from Judeau that somehow managed to sound neither judgmental nor supportive. It was a tightrope walker's perfect balance.

"The band follows Griffith, his dream is our dream." Corkus nodded and gestured wildly with his tankard, ignoring Judeau's observations as though they were gnats to be swatted away.  "When he's king... and he will be king, those who stood by him will rise highest." He declared with a signature slur, eyes narrowing at the swordswoman as though she were forfeiting her birthright, her place in a glorious future that to her seemed increasingly built on quicksand foundations.

"He is human, a man who bleeds like us all," she countered, each word measured yet carrying the weight of years of observation. "Do you understand putting him that high will be a disservice to us all? When your expectations are that high, there is no room for mistakes!"

Silence fell over the tavern, heavier than chain mail, punctuated only by a distant cough and the nervous shuffling of feet. The tavern keeper wisely retreated to the far corner, sensing the tension that could erupt at any moment, like a veteran soldier who recognizes the peculiar stillness before battle breaks.

"A disservice?" Gaston interjected, his voice carrying the crusading certainty of the converted. "He's not like us- that's the point! No ordinary man could have achieved what he has."

A scattered remnant of Hawks pounded their fists and tankards on the tables in agreement, the sound echoing like distant thunder, the percussion of an approaching storm.

"There's wisdom in remembering the humanity of those we follow," Judeau conceded carefully- earning quick and sharp glances from those surrounding him, the words landing like the first raindrops before a deluge. "Though few men wish to be seen too clearly, even by their oldest friends."

The swordswoman kept her expression carefully neutral, a mask perfected through years of court intrigues and battlefield negotiations, deciding not to reply just yet. An older Hawk who rarely spoke raised his tankard slightly, the gesture tentative as a peace offering.

"My father served a lord who was treated as a god," he offered, his weathered face thoughtful, lines carved by sun and sorrow deepening. "When he bled in battle, his men fled in terror, they'd forgotten he could bleed at all."  The observation hung in the air for a heartbeat before Corkus's glare silenced him.

"You've changed," Corkus declared accusingly to the swordswoman- jabbing a finger in her direction, unsteady as a compass in a storm. "Was a time you'd have cut down anyone who spoke of Griffith as just a man."

The statement landed with particular weight, enough for her fists to clench, nails biting into calloused palms. It highlighted not just her current isolation but the fundamental shift in her perception that separated her from her comrades- the distance that had grown like a chasm between continents, imperceptible day by day until suddenly uncrossable. In her, something finally snapped. A bowstring pulled beyond its tolerance, a dam breach after years of mounting pressure.

"You think that due to my closeness with him!" She shouted, slamming her fist down with enough force to send tankards dancing. "You are a sheep, cattle, Corkus- you've always been one! Putting him on a pedestal doesn't mean you see him, you dimwit!"

The tavern erupted into chaos at the dueler's outburst, Hawks leaping to their feet, hands hovering near weapons that weren't there, faces contorted with shock and outrage. Corkus staggered backward as if physically struck by her words.

"How dare you!" he sputtered, face flushed with equal parts rage and intoxication, while others rushed to restrain him, a bench toppling with a crash that punctuated the storm of voices like thunder following lightning. "Those words border on treachery!" Corkus screamed, spittle flying from his lips, catching the light like diamond fragments. Judeau stood slowly, his calm demeanor suddenly transformed into something more serious, more measured.

"Perhaps this conversation should continue when tempers aren't inflamed by ale and absence,"  he suggested, though his eyes revealed his understanding of the deeper rift the swordswoman's words had exposed. It was a fracture in the foundation stone of their shared purpose. "We are all tired, and events with Guts remain unclear," His reasonable tone creating a momentary island of calm in the sea of rising emotion.

"But she speaks from a position none of us share, having known Griffith before the Band existed."

"That doesn't give her the right to call us sheep!" Corkus shouted, struggling against those restraining him, his indignation finding echoes among the other Hawks. The division in the room became physically manifested as men shifted positions, some moving away from the swordswoman while others seemed to consider her words with grudging thoughtfulness, as though trying to recall when they had last seen their leader as merely a man rather than a living standard. She eventually tore away from the group, snatching her coat from the rack and striding for the door with the controlled violence of a storm front.

"Tch-" she growled, the sound more animal than human, before ascending the stairs two at a time.

"Good riddance!" Corkus shouted after her though his bravado rang hollow against the finality of the door slamming shut, the sound echoing like judgment rendered.

Outside, the swordswoman strode through streets slick with recent rain, each puddle a black mirror reflecting fractured lantern light. The few citizens still abroad pressed themselves against buildings as she passed, recognizing the Hawk emblem on her uniform and the dangerous fury in her stride. The inn where the Hawks were quartered appeared through the mist, lanterns burning in windows that promised warmth the swordswoman no longer felt entitled to share. Guards stationed outside recognized her immediately, saluting despite her disheveled appearance- respect for her position rather than her person, for the symbol she wore rather than the woman who wore it. She went straight to her room, the door closing behind her with the finality of a tomb being sealed. Yet the night felt as though she were sleeping on broken glass rather than the feather mattress earned through blood and loyalty. She stared hard into the ceiling's shadows, replaying her words, retracing the path that had led her to this precipice of isolation.

Guilt flared in her breast, then followed by defiant justification. There was a pendulum swing as familiar as her sword forms. Everyone doesn't see Griffith for who he truly is. A man full of ambition, yes, but a man nonetheless. Someone who needs power to exist more than air itself. Someone capable of genuine kindness but equally capable of calculating tenderness when it serves his purpose. He is a man of contradiction like any other, perhaps more so... his brilliance making his shadows all the darker by contrast. She lay on her bed, struggling against thoughts that circled like vultures until she sighed, surrendering to wakefulness. With deliberate movements, she descended the stairs to see if wine might grant her the oblivion sleep denied. At the bar, she downed cup after cup, each one promising relief, each failing to deliver. The wine blurred the edges of her thoughts but sharpened her regrets, making the room spin while her mind remained cruelly, perfectly lucid. It felt too dizzying to stand, yet too painful to remain seated with her thoughts. The irony did not escape her. She who had maintained balance on blood-slicked battlefields now undone by a few cups of common wine and uncommonly heavy truths.

In the corner of her vision, a familiar silhouette appeared, tall, composed, inevitable as dawn.

"You're awake?"

Griffith's voice slipped into her subconcious. She simply lifted her tankard to her lips.

He lingers in the liminal space between lamplight and shadow, silver hair still carved into its courtly perfection, untouched by time or the cloying wine-scented air of the tavern. The White Hawk’s gaze sharpens as it sweeps over the woman collapsed at the bar. Her silhouette slumps like a fallen banner; emptied goblets scatter around her like discarded weapons. The tremble in her fingers, her lids flickering undecided on whether to drift her to slumber or keep her abated is cataloged and weighed. His steps are silent despite the ceremonial boots, their gilded edges catching the light as he advances.

“I heard there was quite a scene at the brewery tonight.” Griffith’s voice was steeped honey as he claimed the stool beside her. Rosewater and bergamot clung to him, nobility’s perfume. His gloved hand slid toward her half-drained cup, fingers curling around it without lifting. The gesture was both caress and collar, his knuckles grazing hers in a parody of intimacy. If sober, she might’ve recoiled. Instead, wine thickened her retort to sludge:

“Here to scold me?”

“Observe.” His thumb traced the cup’s rim, a sculptor smoothing marble. “Though your performance tonight did lack… finesse.”

"Yeah?" She scoffed, the wine tempering the solemnity between them.

"Mhm."

“Finesse your ass.”

His laugh hummed low, a string plucked against her pulse. With serpentine grace, he pried the cup from her grip- the theft seamless, undeniable.

"Are you angry?" She asked suddenly, her gaze averted over her fingers fidgeting with one another. His smile widened over her cowering to even look at him.

"No." His breath was warm on her ear, "Did you think I would be?"

"Yes," She slurs honestly, her gaze finally settling on his to see him sit within his triumphant leer. He scoffed as he let the tavern take the wine, whisping away the tears of the night replaced by water in a chipped tankard. She glared at the betrayal.

"I can just order another one." She retorted.

"And what will that do for you?" He asked. She lunged upright. The room listed, timbers groaning like a gallows tree. His hand closed on her wrist. Not restraint, but mockery of aid. "Sit, drink." He murmured, "You're three sips of ale from a disaster otherwise."

She collapsed back, the stool’s protest echoing her own. "Why are you here?"

"Must I justify breathing your air? I just came back from the dinner party and was going for my room when I saw you slumped over the bar egregiously."

"And?"

He hadn't moved, and then he spoke her name. "The band members didn't take your conversation too lightly, there are opportunities to get their licks back seeing you so open and agreeable like this."

She looked down at the water, then back at him, recognition dawning even through her intoxication. He was doing it again, playing her with the same practiced ease he maneuvered courtiers and kings. She sipped the water reluctantly before setting it down with deliberate dismissal.

"There-"

"I won't be leaving until you're sober enough to climb the stairs,"He interrupted, his politeness a perfectly crafted weapon. "Unless you're arguing for me to carry you up instead, I suggest you finish your serving."

She growled and glanced away, searching for safer territory. "I wonder why you're back here and not at Charlotte's."

"I don't believe you ever truly cared for women until you've seen me next to the princess,"  he countered, the observation stabbing her silently. " You didn't care for Casca's closeness. But I suppose I wasn't receptive then."

Her gaze lingered on his perfect form, eyes struggling to maintain focus as exhaustion claimed further space in her consciousness. The wine's embrace pulled her toward darkness, then snapped her back to his unsettling presence.

"I don't care," she drawled, the protest hollow even to her own ears.

"You care enough to bring her up," he whispered. She jolted at the sudden sensation of his fingers pulling stray lint from her cloak. Proprietary gesture that claimed her personal space without permission.

"Because that's all you're around," she snarled.

His gaze grew half-lidded as he shifted his weight, his arm pressing beside hers on the counter, leaning in with the casual invasion of territory that had conquered nations. "And where were you?" The question carried accusation wrapped in silk. "Avoiding me, feigning your focus elsewhere."

"I'm getting out of your way," she hissed.

"No, you aren't." His certainty cut through her defenses like a blade through parchment. "You're standing in your own, telling yourself it's better that way."

Her eyes widened as she glared at him, yet he regarded her with a calm so complete it sent involuntary shivers across her skin, the ancient, instinctive recognition of predator by prey. "The conversation you instigated at the pub only revealed how green you truly are, how elaborately you lie to yourself."

Each word fell with the precision of a master archer, finding vital targets without wasted motion. "If you didn't care, you wouldn't expend such effort avoiding me. If you're hurt by my actions, you could approach me directly, yet you choose otherwise."

"And then what, Huh?" The question tore from her throat, raw and unvarnished. "You pull that strange performance from the flower field again? You manipulate me as you do Casca? I'm not a fucking idiot, Griffith. If you wanted me docile, you should have simply commanded it."

"Hmm... still fixated on that incident."  He tilted his head, a gesture reminiscent of falcon considering its quarry. For once, his perfect composure showed a hairline fracture, brows furrowing slightly as if encountering an unexpected obstacle. "And if I did command it, would that make a difference?

She froze, her spine rigid against the bar's edge as though she'd been impaled by his words, her eyes carefully searching his for the trap she knew must exist. "What?" The question emerged barely audible, a breath rather than a word.

"You suggested a solution. Did you not expect I might consider it?" he replied, his gaze unwavering as he settled his cheek against his palm, studying her reaction with the detached fascination of a naturalist observing a rare specimen.

"Shut up," she growled, a cornered animal's warning. His lips curved into that familiar smirk- the expression that had preceded the fall of castles and the rise of their banner across Midland's blood-soaked fields.

"Don't grow bashful now, you seemed to offer a serious proposal."  The silence between them stretched taut as a bowstring, laden with everything they'd never said directly yet had always understood-a battlefield where neither could claim certain victory, where the casualties would be counted in truths rather than bodies. She held his gaze, a dangerous game she knew better than to play, yet couldn't abandon. The tavern around them receded into shadow, the world shrinking to just this: his eyes, her breath, the thread of tension pulled tight between them.

"You mistake me, I don't want your submission." His fingers uncurled on the bar beside hers, a hairsbreadth separating them. The deliberate proximity ignited every nerve along her skin.

"What do you want, then?" she whispered, hating the betraying tremble in her voice.

"Better questions." The corner of his mouth lifted, though, not quite a smile, something far more dangerous. "You've known me since we were children scavenging for survival, yet you ask what I want as though I'm a stranger."

His gloved finger traced a circle on the wood beneath it, spiraling closer to her hand with each revolution. She watched, transfixed, as though it were a blade approaching her throat.

"You already know what I want," His voice steepened, "The question haunting you is why I want you to want it too."

She swallowed what felt like a lemon down her throat. "I don't understand."

"You do."  His eyes caressed her face, lingering at her lips.  "That's what terrifies you." He shifted imperceptibly, his knee brushing against hers beneath the counter. She fought the instinct to pull away, knowing retreat would only confirm his power over her.

"In the flower field, I saw something in your eyes I've seen a thousand times before. In courtiers seeking favor. In enemies begging mercy." His hand finally settled over hers. Not grasping, simply resting there, a warm weight impossibly heavy. Catching her in the web of trepidation. "Recognition, the moment when someone finally understands exactly what they are to me."

She wanted to recoil, to snarl some cutting retort, but her body betrayed her, remaining perfectly still beneath his touch, her pulse hammering against her throat. "And what am I to you?" The question escaped before she could bite it back.

Griffith's smile deepened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes at her inevitable surrender to curiosity. He leaned closer, moon color hair falling forward to create a curtain around their faces, a private world within the tavern's dampened atmosphere.

"Everything the others are not."

His thumb traced the ridge of her knuckles, each circle drawing smaller, more precise. His touch left trails of heat that sank beneath her skin, deep into her marrow- inside her soul. "The princess offers her kingdom," Blue orbs held her in predatory focus.

"Casca, her devotion. Guts, his sword. But you..." He reached up suddenly, capturing a strand of her hair between his fingers. The unexpected intimacy froze her breath in her lungs. "Offer nothing because you believe you have nothing I want. That is your greatest miscalculation."

The strand slipped through his fingers, a deliberate caress that felt more invasive than if he'd claimed her mouth.

"I don't play games," she lied, voice hoarse.

"We've played nothing but games since we were children." His smile held genuine warmth now, the most dangerous weapon in his arsenal. "The difference is that I've always acknowledged what we're doing."

She tried to look away, glance into something infinitesimal in the room to dally her time with, not this creeping hell...  but his gaze held her captive. The water in her cup rippled with her trembling hand.

"And what exactly are we doing, Griffith?"

"Dancing," he chuckled, leaning back slightly as though savoring her confusion more than any wine could in the night. "You advance, I retreat. I pursue, you evade. We circle each other like wolves, neither willing to draw first blood."

His hand slid from hers, trailing up her arm with featherlight pressure that somehow burned through fabric to skin.

"You could end this dance whenever you choose. You need only admit what you want."

"And if what I want isn't what you think?" His laugh held truth beneath its lowness, eyes crinkling at the corners in that rare way that reminded her of the boy he'd been.  "Then I would be fascinated to discover how I've read you so wrong after all these years."

He stood suddenly, the movement fluid, mocking her inebriated posture. Towering over her, backlit by the tavern's guttering candles, he appeared almost otherworldly. "But we both know I haven't," he said while his smile faded into the nethers. "Your eyes have always betrayed you."

Her body rose with him, unwilling to remain seated while he loomed above. The sudden movement sent the room spinning, and she swayed dangerously. His hands caught her elbows, steadying her with effortless strength, drawing her closer than intended.

"Careful," His voice was a physical sensation against her ear. A caress she missed but never felt. "Pride makes for treacherous footing." His hands lingered longer than necessary, thumbs brushing circular patterns against the sensitive inner crease of her elbows. The touch seemed innocent, yet sent shivers cascading down her spine.

"I'm not prideful, I'm honest."

"Are you?"

He stepped back, creating space between them that somehow felt more intimate than their proximity had been. "Then honestly tell me why you avoided me at court tonight." The challenge hung between them, unanswerable without conceding ground she couldn't afford to lose. "...You should get some rest," His tone shifted to something gentler- almost tender. "You may even rest if you're succumbing to the alcohol by morning. I can check with you if you'd like."

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Unless you'd prefer I stay?"

The question carried volumes beneath its surface. An offering. A test. A trap.

"I don't need a nursemaid," she said, the words hollow even to her own ears.

"No," he agreed, those azure eyes unearthing the deepest secrets she even hid from herself. "You never have."

He moved toward the door with that preternatural grace. With each step, she felt the opportunity slipping away- though for what, she couldn't name.

"Griffith," she called, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. He turned, expectation etched in the tilt of his head, the patient stillness of his posture.

"Why did you really come down here tonight?"

 His smile bloomed slowly, transforming his face from beautiful to engulfing "Because I wanted to..."

Her gaze snap to his, to his smile, to his lips.

"The same reason you followed me into that flower field, despite knowing better."

He opened the door, cool night air rushing in to clear the tavern's stale heat. "Sleep well," he said with a voice silken. "Dream of whatever you wish. I know I shall."

The door closed behind him with finality, leaving her alone with a half-empty water cup and the lingering sensation of his fingers against her skin. A phantom touch that promised to haunt her long after the wine's effects had faded. She collapsed back onto her stool, heart racing as though she'd survived a battle rather than a conversation. Only then did she realize her fingers were pressed to the spot on her arm where he had touched her, unconsciously tracing the same patterns his thumb had drawn. Cursing under her breath, she snatched her hand away- too late to deny the truth his eyes had so easily read in hers.

[missvaseline]

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 4 (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: heavy manipulation, possessiveness, violence

The way she shoveled in the saddle with every hoof pressing into the dirt made her gouge chafe against Griffith’s surcoat that bunched uselessly in her fingers, sodden with blood. It was a hammer swinging down to her wound. When it grew quiet, the swordswoman finally spoke, her lips growing chapped in the dry air.

“There are comrades hobbling on their last limb and I’m here on a horse, with a crucial member that’s having to take me back to camp. Pathetic.” She spat while her lips twisted in a grimace.

“You’re one of our best swordsman, I could understand wanting to be careful.” Judeau replied, with his accustomed ease to practicality. Crickets chirruped a natural rhythm that gave the façade that it was an armistice on this night. The gliding her thighs were doing while riding this horse began to grow torturous for her.

“Its not about me being the best, its about… wholistically evaluating the battle.” She murmured, “Besides, I don’t think I’m dying. No, I think this horse has a broken leg. Did you strap the saddle in right?” A grumble and she slumped against Judeau’s back in anguish. He quietly snickered.

“I commissioned this saddle for posture. Personal choice.” She hisses in exasperation, believing Griffith had chosen Judeau to take her back because his saddle was made backwards. Another form of reckoning torture and punishment.

“To hell with careful...” She sighs more to herself.

Contemplation flitted onto Judeau’s freckled face while he tilted his reins. “What made you go out there like that? By yourself, chasing down that captain? You’re usually more meticulous.”

The question startled her more than she could realize when she felt her shoulders unconsciously tense. She didn’t know the reason. It was at least elusive enough to warrant her speechless.

“I just felt this rush to keep going. I didn’t really feel that fear that keeps me back for some reason. Probably, too close to a kill I really wanted and didn’t want it to slip through my fingers.” She said.

Contemplation stirred the air, and the swordsman could sense Judeau was attempting to carefully mince his words under the guise of a concerned member. Or possibly he was truly concerned. It was hard to understand because she simply couldn’t give a damn while this pain was throbbing like a pulse to her side. She felt like she was sitting in a bowl of sweat in her armor.

“Interesting. Didn’t know if you wanted to impress Griffith. I’ve heard some of your squabbles with him and they don’t seem too pretty lately.” It was a bold assumption that earned him the sound of lips sucking at her teeth.

“I didn’t know he was even watching me until he forced me onto his horse. The bickering looks like its just stress weighing him down once and for all. This hundred-year war is a plague of many kinds.” She murmured, groaning in anguish, when the horse dipped into a small ditch.

“That man is enigma. I just thought you had a better glance of him. It’s a shame, really. Those compartments can rain down on us all if it isn’t tended to. Though, to be frank, I never see him really bicker with anyone else but you.” She jolted at his words, immediately feeling it engulf her.

“I’m a problem? Is that what you’re saying?” She asked in a deceptively calm tone.

“No, Just… I’ve never seen him bicker with anyone else before. Even enemies, I’ve seen him remain suave with in the very least.” He was right, unfortunately. And because there were no answers she only stewed in more apprehension.

How the weeds will come then trying to steal your time like vultures who were waiting for the kill all along?

She didn’t understand what that meant, but it rang in her head like a haunting phantasm. That moment was a needle incision where the deepness knows no bounds. She couldn’t form it into words without an oppressive sense of defame, a bile that chewed at her throat. It felt as though if she were to tell Judeau of what happened at the flower field, she would have to deal with speculation, doubts, explanations that felt like she was sitting on a log naked in her foretelling. It gnawed at her, but not as badly as the remorseless feeling of supposition in the air. She didn’t want that.

Not with this war.

When they had arrived back to the camp, Judeau helped her to bed, gathering what little vinegar they had left and booze to disinfect the scar. Stitches made her skin tremble as she tried to keep still, her forearm over her eyes as a means for concentrating on Judeau’s words. She had avoided talking as the vinegar bit at the edges of her stitched gash.

“Its just a flesh wound,” She scoffed as she had her eyes hidden beneath her forearm, splayed restlessly on her cot.

“You’re lucky,” Judeau muttered, tying off the thread. “Half an inch deeper, and we’d be digging your grave instead of patching your pride.”

The swordsman glared at the blood soaked bandages piled on the floor. “Lucky? I’m stuck here while they’re out there.”

“Out there’s a meat grinder tonight.” Judeau’s tone softened. He nodded to the tent flap, where the horizon pulsed orange.  “Griffith’s orders were clear. You’re no use to anyone dead.”

In the distance, voices of the band came into a hum and immediately, the swordsman’s heart picked up. One, because she was certainly going to be teased for being kicked out of the battle, two, because she would now have to deal with Griffith hovering around her as though he’s not leading them all to a kingdom. The camp buzzed with the ragged energy of survivors. Torchlight flickered over bloodied armor and hollow laughter as the Band of the Hawk trickled back-some limping, others carrying the unconscious. Casca pushed into the tent, her braid frayed and cheeks smeared with soot. Her eyes swept over the sword maiden’s bandaged torso.

“Alive, then,” she said, tossing a waterskin onto the cot. “Waste of good stitches if you ask me.”

The swordswoman bristled but bit back a retort. Casca’s version of concern was a steel on steel- crude, but honest.

Judeau rose, brushing dirt from his knees.  “All yours, Commander.”  He shot the swordswoman a wink. “Try not to reopen her. She’s pricklier than a thistle when she’s bored.”

Casca’s scoff followed him out. Silence pooled in the tent, thick with the stench of antiseptic and unsaid things. The swords woman couldn’t look at her.

“Griffith’s unharmed,” Casca said abruptly, as if reading the question coiled in the swordman’s throat. “The enemy general’s head hangs from his saddle. A gift for the king.”

“And the men?”

“Seven dead. Twelve wounded.” Casca’s fingers tightened on her sword hilt. “Including you.”

A log snapped in the brazier. Shadows leapt across the canvas walls like restless spirits.

“You’re off rotation for a week,” Casca added, turning to leave. “Griffith’s orders.”

“He thought I was going to die…” She muttered to herself, her arms crossing in frustration, “Since when does he take me off rotation?” Casca paused, her silhouette rigid against the firelight.

" Since your stupidity nearly cost us a captain.”

The swordsman finally held Casca in her gaze, she was scowling at her- it damn near seemed she was asking for an apology. The woman would’ve brushed it off it weren’t for the fact that Griffith didn’t fight her to go back to camp for what felt like a paper cut in comparison to what she’s seen in the battle. She bit back a growl just as Casca went to leave. She sat up, too fast- the pain on her side making her gasp.

“I wasn’t the one who dragged myself off of blood soaked grass, Casca. He forced me to go back for a gash that needs just vinegar!”

-But Casca was already gone within the band’s rampant chaos, leaving the swordsman to soak in a stew of frustration before she let her head fall back to the pillow. She snapped her eyes shut trying to force her body into slumber just to avoid any more humiliating rituals for the night. It was supposed to be less men that died. 7 was impressive, but not the norm for the Band of Hawk. A tinge of guilt settling in her stomach only made the time stretch longer.

Dawn came around and the camp stirred to the rhythm of hammers and curses as the smiths repaired armor. The swordsman sat propped against a wagon, watching Guts heave bodies onto a pyre. His expression never changed- not for the dead, not for the living.

“Bet you’ve got a new scar to match that scowl,” Corkus drawled, dropping onto a crate beside her. His breath reeked of ale, but his hands shook as he lit a pipe.

“Better than your face,” the woman shot back.

He barked a laugh, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Careful, girl. Another hole in your gut and Griffith’ll chain you to his tent.” Her knuckles whitened on her dagger, brows furrowed as she snapped a glare at him. Corkus’ grin faltered.

“Oi, enough.” Rickert appeared, balancing a bowl of broth. “You’re supposed to rest. Not start wars at breakfast.”

“Rest,” she muttered, glaring at the broth. “I’d rather swallow live coals.”

Rickert’s smile wavered.

“Griffith said-”

“Griffith’s not here. You don’t have to listen to everything that man says. Enough about him.” She scolds the boy as she reluctantly reaches for the bowl.

Rickert faltered, his mouth pressing in a line of conflict. Corkus relaxed as soon as the woman had put the bowl over the crate. She was fighting herself on whether to eat it. She was never hungry in the mornings. It was growing tedious being around the band for long stretches of time. Because the best friend she’s known for so long, often is hailed as some god while she simply sees him. And gives into him regardless.

“I just don’t want to get kicked off of my duties.” He said, his palms catching his hips to appear more responsible in front of her.

“He kicks people off for not listening…” The swordsman snorts while she quips her brow, “How petty.”

It was as though his phantom pressed her with every action she did in the camp. She wanted to find out further if that was the case, “Does he usually do this? Because this is the first time I’ve ever been kicked off.” She asked.

Rickert went quiet and Corkus, dismissive. “Well, I’ve never been kicked off, personally..” Corkus grumbled, scratching his head while breathing the pipe.

“Me neither. And I want to keep it that way.” Rickert said,

The swordsman held a blank expression before sighing. The broth cooled untouched as the camp’s rhythm grew louder. Hammers clanged, horses snorted, and somewhere, a lute’s broken melody tangled with Judeau’s laughter. The swordswoman stared at the steam curling from the bowl, her reflection warped in the oily surface. Rest. The word curdled in her gut. She’d never been still long enough to notice how the camp smelled- iron, pine resin, and the sweet rot of old blood. Corkus exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze following hers to the pyre.

"You’re lucky it’s just a week. Last time I saw Griffith bench someone, it was a recruit who questioned his orders mid-battle. Disappeared by dawn.” He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Course, you’re special.”

Rickert shot him a warning look. “She’s not-“

“Special?” The swordswoman cut in, her voice sharp enough to silence the clatter of a nearby blacksmith. “Is that what they call it when he decides who lives or dies based on whims?”

Corkus’ pipe stilled as well as the wind around him. Rickert stepped closer, voice low. “You shouldn’t-“

“Shouldn’t what?” She stood abruptly, ignoring the flare of pain in her side. “Question the great Griffith? The Falcon?” Her laugh was brittle. “He’s just a man. A man who-“

“A man who saved your life last night.”

The voice slipped through the camp’s noise like a blade between ribs. Griffith stood at the edge of the wagon’s shadow, dawn gilding the edges of his armor. His hair, unbound, cascaded over his pauldrons, a silver river against steel. His expression was calm, but his eyes- always his eyes, burned with something colder than winter. Corkus vanished like mist. Rickert lingered, torn, until Griffith’s flick of a glove dismissed him. The swordswoman didn’t sit. Couldn’t. Her hands trembled, so she clenched them into fists.

Griffith stepped closer, his gaze trailing the bandage peeking beneath her tunic.

“You’re angry.”

“Observant.” She retorted.

“At me.”

“At this.” She gestured to the camp, the pyre’s smoke staining the sky. “You bench me for a scratch but send Guts into a horde of pikes without blinking. What’s the difference? You’re coddling me.”

His mask cracked, a twitch at his jaw, a too-quick breath. “You think this is coddling?”

“Isn’t it?” She pressed a hand to her side, the wound throbbing in time with her pulse. “Is this something like control, Griffith?”

The word hung between them, poison tipped. Griffith’s smile went sharp.

“You’ve never been controlled. Not by me. Not by anyone.”  He reached for her, gloved fingers going for hers. She flinched. Her hand froze when she felt the press of his.  “You followed me into hell when we were children. You chose this. Chose me.”

Her breath hitched. Memory flickered with a skeletal village that held her old home, smoke clawing the sky. Griffith, barely taller than her, his hands slick with blood not his own as he helped her pull her father into a haphazardly dug in grave. Stay close, he’d said. I’ll keep you alive.

The swordsman swallowed the memory like bile. “People change.”

“Do they?”

His fingers finally fell, curling into a fist at his side.

“You still fight like you’re eight years old-all fury, no fear. Still race me at dawn. Still…” He paused, averting his gaze while confliction spread in his expression.

“…look at me like I hung the stars.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. Liar. She’d stopped looking years ago. Hadn’t she?

“You’re avoiding the question,” she whispered, keeping herself gated and frozen.

Griffith tilted his head, the dawn catching in his eyes. Blue, always so blue.

“The difference,” he said softly, “is that Guts knows where he stands with me.”

A horn shattered the moment- deep, mournful. Griffith’s hand fell. His mask slid back into place, smooth as silk.

“Rest, ” he ordered, already turning.

She watched him stride toward the sound. Around her, the camp surged back to life, but the swordswoman stood rooted, the skin on her palm still burning where he’d touched her. Guts knew where he stood because he made it obvious, she wanted to retort.

Rumors about Zodd spread through the lands. Griffith seemed to tune his attention to training as if he’s already known about the creature before it touched anyone else’s ears. Impatience felt like a nail driving itself through the swordswoman’s resolve. She wasn’t going to throw her life away, but the week was almost done. She was itching to fight, and it seemed the more she went to push the boundaries on finally getting out of her cot and to the battlefield. She kept it relatively short with Griffith, a sort of defiance for the fact that she was benched. She even tried sneaking out only for Pippin to carry her back to her cot, Griffith’s orders. Shit.

She felt useless.

She was supposed to be the best swordsman in the band, now she’s under the heels of something called protection and care. Enough with that bullshit.

Griffith’s fingers lingered on the edge of the map, his gaze slicing through the mist as the swordsman strapped her vambrace with deliberate defiance. Her hands trembled, not from pain, but from the raw need to claw back agency. The wound at her side pulsed faintly beneath fresh bandages, a stubborn reminder of Griffith’s orders.

“You’re not healed,” Griffith said. His eyes were still trained on the map, as though her presence were a minor distraction, a moth fluttering too close to his grand plans.

“And you’re not my nursemaid.” She seized a sword from the rack, testing its weight. The hilt felt foreign after days of idleness. “I’ve fought with worse.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “This isn’t a skirmish. Zodd isn’t some bandit chieftain.”

“Then why bring the whole band?” She stepped closer, her shadow mingling with his on the war table. “You need every sword. Even mine.” His eyes flicked to hers, glacial and unyielding.

“I need you alive.”

The words hung between them, sharp as a garrote. She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound. “Since when do you care so much?”

Griffith’s mask slipped, just for a heartbeat. A crack in the porcelain, a flash of something feral. Then it was gone. He unrolled the map with a snap, ink-stained fingers tracing the mountain pass where Zodd had been sighted.

“Take the rear flank. Guard the supply carts.”

“Guard the-?” Her knuckles whitened on the sword. “You’d have me babysit luggage while Guts and Casca carve through apostles?”

“Yes.” His tone brooked no argument. “Or you can stay here. Your choice.”

The camp buzzed around them, men tightening saddle straps and murmuring prayers to gods long deaf. A raspy sigh and she was grumbling in irritation.

“Need me alive but then doesn’t have me do anything of use.” She hid under her grunt before relenting. “Fine, fuck it.”

Of course, she was going to take the opportunity to leave. It was claustrophobic staying in a cot. Didn't mean she had to stay near the carts. Not while she can be useful.

[jacks-obsessions]

Corruption kink with Judeau. Only imagines corrupting that man, making him so needy, while he begs you to ride him.

You know what? This guy hasn't had a lot of sex. You know why? Because he's a mercenary. Not many opportunities to bang. So he's probably on the less experienced side of things, and he doesn't get enough privacy to rub one out very often, so he's very sensitive too. Ride him till he's a blubbering mess.

[pinkkunt-imagines]

hello! can i request SFW/NSFW for Judeau from Berserk, plz?

OMG! I NEVER NOTICED HOW COOT MY BABY JUDEAU WAS UNTIL I REWATCHED! HE IS BEST PARTNER! ENJOY BBY~ NSFW UNDER LE CUT~

Judeau

SFW

♡Judeau is the ideal partner for every woman, and he was likely your first friend when joining the group.

♡He’s very level headed, and more easy to talk to than anyone else in the band. He’ll converse with you about any problems you two may have in the relationship because he believes in communication.

♡Judeau is all about sticking to the end. He won’t give up on the relationship, and will always try to make it work. But, should you choose to leave him for some reason, he will respect that. He won’t pressure you to stay, or to do anything, he firmly believes it’s your choice. 

♡He wants you to take care of yourself. He’ll give you a stern talking to if you don’t because those battles are strenuous.

♡Ultimate protector. While he worries about you, he’s not over protective. He’ll sacrifice his life for you if anything, and he’ll be damned if anyone tries to hurt you.

♡"You’re messing with my woman, and for that you’ll pay.“ Like YASS JUDEAU! Protect your woman at all costs!

♡His reflexes are GOD-LIKE. You’ll never trip or fall around this man. He’ll catch you so quick, you won’t even know what happened.

♡Judeau catcalls anytime he sees you, and you can’t help but blush. He also gives you many praises.

♡“Wow. Incredible view.” or "You were really amazing on the battle field today!”

♡Can you say best period caregiver? Like he will be there to coddle your every need. He may not understand woman problems completely, but if holding you and bringing you chocolate will make the experience better, he’s happy to oblige. 

♡"You look sick. Must be that time of the month again. What can I get for you?“

NSFW

 ♡One word : Virgin

♡He’s very inexperienced, but he sure does catch on fast. If he notices that doing one thing makes you squeal louder than another, he’s going to keep at it until you beg him to stop.

♡The first time he finds your G-Spot, it’s over. His precision fingers know exactly where to go now going forward with you two’s sexual relationship.

♡He respects you. So he’s going to ask are you sure with going through with it, and tell you that you can ask him to stop anytime that you may feel uncomfortable. He also respects you enough to ask for permission to remove your clothing.

♡Judeau likes when your hands play in his hair, or when you’re digging your nails into his back. Let’s him know he’s doing his job right.

♡Missionary is his go to.He wants to see your face as he works himself in you. His thrusts are slow and hit deep. To further his depth inside you, he’ll wrap his arms around your shoulders, and make you wrap your legs around his waist and go from there. He’s so close that his lower body is pressing against your clit, with each movement he’s stimulating you and it doesn’t take long for you to cum after.

♡Only when he’s desperate is when he moves fast. Or during a quickie with you bent over, holding against a tree, because he’s down for those. But not a big preference of his.

♡Judeau may find himself finishing inside you from time to time. Okay, like most of the time. His pullout game is weak as hell.

♡"Shit, I’m sorry, [Name]. It was so good I couldn’t help myself.”

♡He pillowtalks the hell out of you. His hands run along your curves, his lips still kissing at your neck and face. He’s going to whisper sweet-nothings to you, which make you giggle and smile.

♡”You’re absolutely stunning…”