Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Warning(s): dub-con, repetitive language, repetitive ideas, present tense, non-erotic smut, unabashed bracket abuse and too much rambling.
Notes: I have to give credit where it's due – this piece was inspired by the lovely ficlet "with mouth parted" (can be found on Eljay — or PM me and I'll give you the link). This piece shares a similar concept, but well, I guess I've made it more introspective? (And it's not half as awesome as that ficlet is, believe me).
Feedback would be nice, though I don't expect any – given how /lame/ this is and the not really active state of this fandom (which is a crying shame).
For a second, Guts want to say "fucking no" and "don't touch me, bastard" as repulsion (the memory of fat hands clawing at his back, and an even larger cock tearing him, ripping him up inside – so hard, so painful) rolls over him. He swallows and looks up into Griffith's blue eyes, which coldly observe everything. The darkness of the room, the disgusted look on Gut's face, the clenching of his fists and the tense way he's leaning against the wall – naked and utterlyexposed.
(Utterly at Griffith's mercy.)
There's no compassion, no playfulness in those eyes - just Griffith staring at him as if he saw right through him, as if he understood just who Guts is –
- no, he knows exactly.
Like a mirror, Guts thinks, his eyes are nothing but a mirror that just reflect my own scared face back at me. I can't hide, I can't run away, but either give in or try to rebel against him.
And it's nauseous – he's shaking and sweating like a damned pig because he's so afraid; Guts flinches as Griffith's hand caresses his cheek. His hand, despite the many battles he's been in, is unusually soft. Not even Casca's hands are that soft.
"Trust me, Guts," Griffith says and, without waiting for a response, plunges one finger into his arse – it fucking hurts because he's tight and the intrusion goes against his pride, his everything.
- against my way of living.
But Guts doesn't fight back. Not even as Griffith adds another finger, and Guts, closing his eyes, wonders what the hell this should accomplish, whether it's supposed to be some kind of punishment or wicked game of torture. Or whether, Griffith is just plain bored and is currently engaging in such an act because he likes seeing people break, because he enjoys having power. He's probably known from the get-go that Gut's weakness is that of being overpowered, that the only thing that could make him surrender – even if only momentary – is complete helplessness
- using my fears. Using them to keep me under a leash.
No, that can't be. Guts knows that Griffith isn't that kind of person; he would never use his friends – he's a good person, an honourable one. Even if he's unapproachable and evades answers, Guts believes that Griffith – deep down – is better than any of those bastards and jerks that wander about the world. He's got dreams. He's got a vision and Guts has no qualms about waving his sword for him, killing men under his orders to bring Griffith closer to the path of victory. He'll be his sword, no question about that.
Yet, Guts wonders why he's not putting an end to this. Back then, he'd sworn to himself that he'd never, ever submit to anyone again, that he'd rather die than take it up the ass. So he's bewildered and wonders.
Wonders why, why he's so fucking paralysed and not putting an end to this humiliation.
He would just have to move away, would just have to raise his hand and smash his fist against Griffith's porcelain-like face, break his nose and send the blood spraying over the wall. He's raged and fought before; the ire, the hatred – it's part of him, pumping through his veins like adrenaline. Blood. He'd just have to shed blood – Griffith's blood.
But it's not Griffith's blood Guts tastes as he bites against his lower-lip, choking back a cry that is on his tongue. He wants it to stop, but – but can't run away. Not yet.
Maybe, he isn't running away because this Griffith – and because it's Griffith, it's fine. Yes, Guts trusts Griffith – would fucking die for him if it were necessary. And if this is what Griffith considers necessary, then Guts will obey. He has not yet reached the level, in which he's in any position to question him (not yet).
"Relax," Griffith commands as he undoes his trousers, and – swiftly – enters Guts; Guts winces, feeling the blinding pain tear through him – and he knows he's bleeding. He's a warrior. It doesn't matter. So, Guts doesn't flinch or cry out but closes his eyes shut even tighter, praying that Griffith won't notice how he's trembling.
Griffith fucks like he fights – relentlessly and elegantly, moving with rhythmic thrusts in and out of him. He doesn't groan, grunt nor does his breathing betray him. It's difficult to tell whether he's enjoying this at all. Or just -
- using me.
He once told me I was his, his thing, Guts remembers, and wonders if this – the thing they're doing now – is just something Griffith does in order to make it harder for Guts to run away. Maybe he's marking Guts, so that even if he does run away one fine day, he'll always remember that he was once Griffith's property.
His and his alone.
Guts closes his eyes: the act of being screwed is no more pleasurable than being wounded on the battlefield. It hurts. The pain is so great that he wants to scream as Griffith starts thrusting harder, ripping him further apart. But then, somewhere along the line, the pain blurs with pleasure which sears through Guts's body like alcohol and, for some inane reason, he can't stop himself from panting. He suddenly wants - needs - more, unconsciously starting to thrust back with his hips. And it should be disgusting, should make him feel bloody ashamed, but Guts doesn't care because the only thing he wants right now is -
- faster, deeper.
That seems to be what Griffith has been waiting for and his movements become even more ruthless; he's really pounding into Guts now, fuelled by something that can not be put into words. It's not lust. Griffith is certainly beyond that. It can't be love (that's for pussies and idiots and ninnies). Nor is it simply desire for power, Guts believes.
It's none of those, and yet it's all that (power, lust and love combined: a deadly combination that is as ruthless as it is stimulating.)
Although Griffith doesn't touch him, Guts finds himself coming; he comes with such a hoarse grunt that it's nearly inhumane-sounding.
(But then, he's just an like an animal: a lone wolf solely driven onwards by the desire to survive.)
Griffith doesn't say anything after he's spilled himself inside of Guts; he merely pulls out and makes himself look presentable again. Guts, however, is still breathing deeply – and shivering. His mind is reeling, heart-beat deeply in accord with the confused, thunderbolt-like thoughts in his head.
-why, why, why?
He doesn't realise it now, but, even when he stops believing in Griffith, he'll always be marked.
He'll always belong to Griffith.