Rating: Hard R.
Word Count: 550
Summary/Description: Both his hands were clamped firmly down on Griffith's shoulders, and they wouldn't move. They wouldn't move.
Warning/Spoilers: Porn and language.
A/N: I am not going to pretend that this is anything other than what it is: pure PWP. :( Happy belated birthday to me.
Disclaimer: I do not own Berserk.
Battle fervour was still running high; it thrummed beneath his skin and throughout his pores to the backdrop of the noises of celebration and merrymaking that he could hear from inside the tent. The sweat was cool and slick on his skin, mixing with the dirt and blood that made of patchwork of his body and armour, and creating a pretty irritating sensation as it dried. Not that he cared either way; for the moment, Guts couldn't concentrate on anything other than the feel of Griffith's hand on his dick.
He gritted his teeth, arching his back harder against the post of the tent so that his pelvis jutted forward, pushing his erection further into his captain's steel hold. Griffith smiled in that enigmatic way of his, pressing his thumb into the head, and Guts would have glared if he'd had the inclination or the presence of mind.
"You did well, Commander," came the pleasant, unaffected words at his ear, accompanied by a clenching of his fist and a twist of his wrist. Guts groaned as his hips jerked violently of their own accord. Sweat was dripping into his eyes from his hair, and it stung, but he couldn't brush it away. Both his hands were clamped firmly down on Griffith's shoulders, and fuck, they wouldn't move. They wouldn't move.
"Very well indeed," the velvet voice stroked out again. Griffith's thumb was drawing a line across the sharp ridge of Guts' hipbone, and shit, Guts' would never admit it, but it felt good. The thumb stroked lower, against hard skin and muscle, down to his pelvis, sliding against the other hand that was working at his cock, and lower still to his balls, and the spot just behind them. Guts hissed, biting his lip until he broke the skin. It was like Griffith knew exactly what to do.
Outside, he could hear Corkus' big mouth and the sound of someone playing a flute, and it distracted him long enough for him to wonder why in the hell Griffith was doing this. He didn't fucking ask for it, and Griffith didn't owe him any favours, but…
When did Griffith ever need a reason to do what he did?
Guts grunted, and closed his eyes, hips moving in time with Griffith's slowly quickening pace. The calluses on his friend's hand burned, and there was so much friction… Guts fisted a hand in the material of the tent walls. It hadn't even been ten minutes, but he was so close…
Griffith leaned down to his ear again. His breath was warm.
"You did well," he repeated. His tongue touched Guts' ear, so lightly it might have been an accident, and Guts came, grunting and gasping, lowering his head to rest it on Griffith's shoulder as the spasms shook him. His come spurted into Griffith's hand, which the other man then rubbed right back on his cock, and it felt almost too good.
When Guts next opened his eyes, Griffith was wiping his hand with something; it looked like a linen square. He stepped away from Guts, and as always, there was that enigmatic smile.
"I'll see you outside, Commander," he said, and swept out of the tent.
Guts glared after him for a few moments before folding himself to the ground, exhausted.