Miss Vaseline

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 19 (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. (note: I will start making podfics again since I finally got a new microphone. My voice is shot since I'm sick at them moment though so I can't make them this week, but I'll certaintly try to record the remaining podfics for the last few chapters for anyone listening.)

Before the march to get to Gennon's neck, the desert was cold. It was hours before she had finished packing the tent. Around her, the Band of the Hawk moved with purpose- weapons being sharpened, armor checked, horses fed. Doldrey loomed in everyone's thoughts, though none spoke of it directly. She was fastening the straps on her saddlebag when a solid weight collided with her shoulder.

"My apologies-"

Lord Percival's voice died in his throat as she turned. His face, already faint in the dawn light, went ashen. The Swordswoman straightened, a mean mug forming on her face.

"Lord Percival." Her voice was flat, devoid of courtesy.

He took a step back, then seemed to remember himself, his station, his pride. He was steadily avoiding her eyes ever since the last battle.

Until now.

She scoffed, turning away to continue her preparations. The less time spent in his presence, the better. She had saved his miserable life during the last skirmish. Not out of any fondness of course.

"Wait."

His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. She paused, keeping her back facing him.

"The bounty," Percival said. "The one the Tudor has placed on your head. Have you... have you heard the amount?"

Now she did turn, her eyes narrowing. "What?"

Percival swallowed, his fingers fidgeting with the pommel of his ornamental sword. "One hundred thousand gold pieces. Apparently, you've killed three of their generals personally."

The Swordswoman's jaw tightened. One hundred thousand. More than most nobles saw in a lifetime. She happened to fall for him too

"Why do you care?" she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

Percival's hand disappeared into his coat, emerging with something small that glinted dully in the morning light. A key, old and ornate, dangled from a worn leather cord.

"I'm trying to help you," he said, extending it toward her.

The Swordswoman's eyes narrowed to slits. "What is this?"

He scoffed, a bitter sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not fully the asshole you portray me to be." He thrust the key closer. "It's a thank you. Even if you happen to have a sharp mouth at times."

She didn't take it. Percival sighed.

"It leads to Kael's possessions. Before he was thrown out of Midland. I had them for safekeeping. We were..." He paused, something genuine flickering across his features. "We were best friends before."

The Swordswoman stared at him. The weak chin, the nervous hands, the eyes that couldn't quite meet hers, but beneath it all, she could see it. Something that reminded her of her father.

She scoffed, disbelief sharp in her voice. "Really?"

"Him, Laban, Lyle, and myself. Owen was a kid coming up at the time." Percival's voice softened with memory. "We were like brothers. Before… everything."

"Then why the hell would you flirt with me?"

Percival had the decency to look ashamed before admitting it. "I wanted to test Griffith more than you. You're not so far from your father in terms of people having a hold on them. But I get it, funnily enough, I thought your father was lucky to be killed rather than to live and have to serve into something that created his downfall. But alas, we aren’t talking about my story."  Percival sighed, pressing the key into her palm before she could refuse. "I suppose Lyle will eventually spill the beans anyway. He always does." He glanced toward the noble tents where the other lords were emerging. "Your father left things behind. Things you should know about. Things about why he really defected."

"What do you mean, 'really defected'?"

But Percival was already walking away, his shoulders hunched as if carrying a great weight. Whether it was shame he still felt or not. When she was riding over Viola, heading to the waves of blue spilling over the desert plains, it was hours after her encounter with Percival. The key hung heavy against the Swordswoman's chest, tucked beneath her armor where no one could see. Percival had given it to her in case he died- that much was obvious. Men facing Doldrey's walls understood the mathematics of mortality. But his words had burrowed deep, festering in the quiet spaces of her mind.

Having a hold over her.

The thought gnawed at her as the army moved across the Midland plains. Doldrey rose before them, a titan of sandstone and spite, scrubbed clean of old blood, its walls reaching toward heaven like accusing fingers. Somewhere within that fortress of nightmares, Gennon waited.

Her jaw clenched at the thought of him.

"Pretty impressive, isn't it?"

Judeau's voice pulled her from the spiral of her thoughts. He rode beside her while his fingers worked absently at a leather pouch, checking the knives within for the hundredth time.

She glanced at him, then back at Doldrey's maw. "What is?"

"These." He pulled out one of the blades, holding it up so the overbearing sunlight caught its edge. "Made them specifically for Tudor armor. See how the tip tapers? Slides right between the plates. Been working on the design for months." Genuine pride colored his voice, the kind of satisfaction a craftsman took in perfecting his art.

The Swordswoman managed what might have been a smile, though it felt foreign on her face. "You'll get to test them soon enough."

"That's the idea." Judeau slipped the knife back into its sheath, but his eyes lingered on her. Probably reading the thoughts she had as if they were bold lettering written over her.

Ahead, Griffith rode at the vanguard of the Band of the Hawk, his white armor catching all of the sun. The plan was solid: split their forces, draw the Tudor garrison out, create confusion in their ranks. It was the kind of tactical brilliance that had made Griffith legendary.

But it felt empty. Hollow.

Because she wasn't part of it. Never truly was.

Her eyes returned to Doldrey, scanning the distant walls with predatory focus. Somewhere in that blue sea of Tudor soldiers, Gennon hid behind his title and his gold. The man who had bought Griffith's body like one might purchase a fine horse. The man whose death she had promised herself in the dark hours of too many sleepless nights. She tried to pick him out from the mass of armor and banners, searching for any sign of his retinue.

"You're looking for someone." Judeau stated.

"The bounty," she said instead, deflecting. "One hundred thousand gold pieces. Percival told me this morning."

The knife-thrower whistled low. "That's more than most kingdoms spend on a war. You've made quite an impression on them."

"Three generals," she said flatly. "Apparently that warrants the title 'Midland Demon.'"

But even as she spoke, another truth whispered beneath the words- one Percival hadn't known, couldn't have known. One hundred thousand gold pieces wasn't just about dead generals. That kind of money, that kind of focused hatred, came from something more personal.

Gennon and Envy. That's what this was. The bounty wasn't about military strategy or dead generals.

It was about her closeness to Griffith.

Her father had defected from Midland for reasons she'd never fully understood. And now she rode toward Doldrey with secrets hanging around her neck and a bounty on her head placed by a man who had violated the one person she felt no end to.

"Stay close when it starts," Judeau said, misreading her silence for fear. 

She didn't answer. Her eyes remained fixed on Doldrey's walls, searching the blue haystack for one particular needle, one throat to cut, one debt to settle in blood.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of foreign steel.

But the line stopped.

The Swordswoman felt it ripple through the army like a held breath, thousands of men and horses going still as stone while the sun beat down mercilessly from a sky the color of bleached bone. Ahead, Owen's voice carried across the ranks, explaining Griffith's strategy. Split forces. Flanking maneuvers. Calculated chaos. But all she could see was the line of blue on the horizon. Tudor's army moved like a living thing, a serpent of sapphire scales and steel that seemed to shimmer in the heat haze rising from the desert floor. They came not with the thunder of hooves but with the inexorable patience of the tide, and Doldrey loomed behind them like a god's broken tooth jutting from the sand.

Then Griffith's arm rose- white armor blazing like a fallen star… and fell.

The line surged forward. The Swordswoman's horse lunged beneath her, and immediately the world became heat and motion and the taste of copper on her tongue. Her armor felt like an oven, the metal plates conducting the desert sun until she could feel it cooking her alive inside her own shell. Sweat ran in rivers down her spine, stinging her eyes, making her grip slick on her sword's leather-wrapped hilt.

Focus.

She forced herself to breathe, to think, to see beyond the wall of bodies and banners rushing toward collision. The nobles clustered around her like nervous sheep, their ornamental armor glinting uselessly in the brutal light. Lyle gathered on her left flank, his face grim beneath his helmet, and she felt rather than see the other nobles quietly positioning themselves to cover her flanks.

Protecting her. The irony would have been funny if her throat wasn't so dry it felt like swallowing sand.

But she was too focused on the front, on that blue mass of Tudor soldiers, searching, always searching for one particular face among thousands. Gennon had to be here. Men like him always positioned themselves close enough to the battle to claim glory but far enough back to preserve their precious skin. She scanned the enemy lines with predatory intensity, looking for his colors, his retinue, any sign of-

The impact came like the world ending.

Tudor's vanguard hit Midland's line with a sound like mountains collapsing. Men screamed. Horses shrieked. The desert floor began its transformation into mud from blood. And then she saw them. Tudor in double plated armor, swallowed in decorations that made them stand pedestals high. She had heard rumors, whispered stories around campfires about Tudor's elite- warriors who wore double layered armor so thick that arrows bounced off like rain, who could wade through common soldiers like farmers through wheat. But seeing them was different. They were titans, each one a walking fortress of interlocking plates and chain, their armor a deeper blue than the standard Tudor livery, almost black in the shadows.

They crashed into the Midland flank like a battering ram into kindling.

"Hold!" Lyle yelled, and for the first time since she'd known him- this preening noble who played at war like it was a tournament, she saw him fight.

His sword was smart, finding the gaps in the impossible armor and making blood spray. A Tudor knight bore down on him, a mountain of metal and murder, and Lyle didn't flinch. He stepped inside the giant's guard, his blade sliding up beneath the gorget where double armor became single, and the knight went down like a felled tree.

Blood splattered across sand, turning it to dark paste.

Another knight charged, and Lyle killed him too- this time driving his point through the eye slit with such force that the blade punched out the back of the helmet. The body toppled, and Lyle was already finding another kill. They must’ve gotten better at fighting, good. They had simply never needed to show their teeth before.

"Left!" Judeau's shout snapped her attention around.

Three double plated Tudor had broken through, making straight for her position. Their armor caught the sun like dark water, and she could see her reflection distorted in their breastplates- a small figure, dwarfed by their mass, marked by a bounty that made her worth more dead than most men were worth alive. The Swordswoman's lips pulled back from her teeth.

One hundred thousand gold pieces.

Let's see if they can collect.

Swings the Swordswoman couldn’t keep track of sent fire racing up to her shoulder, but she didn't stop- couldn't. The blue waves kept coming, wave after wave of armored death, and she met them head on, regardless of her muscles crying and viola screaming beneath her. A knight's mace whistled past her head. She ducked, feeling the wind of its passage, and drove her sword up into his armpit where the double plates couldn't reach. Hot blood sprayed across her face, mixing with sweat and sand until she could barely see.

Another came. She killed him too. And another.

An arrow took her to the side.

It punched through the gap between her breastplate and backplate with a sound like a branch snapping, and at first she couldn’t keep focus on the feathers of its end swimming at the sides of her vision. The Swordswoman looked down, almost curious, and saw the shaft protruding from just below her ribs- not deep enough to be fatal, angled wrong to hit anything vital.

Just a scratch, she thought distantly.

Though the pain felt wrong. Her fingers began to tingle, then her arms.

Poison.

The realization came even as her legs began to weaken. She gripped Viola's mane, trying to steady herself, but the mare was already panicking- surrounded by screaming men and dying horses, the scent of blood thick enough to taste. A Tudor soldier lunged at her stirrup. The Swordswoman moved before she could think. Her body knew the dance even as her mind began to fog. She launched herself from Viola's back, dagger already in her hand, and landed on the soldier like a hunting cat.

They went down together in a tangle of limbs and steel.

Her dagger found his throat. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood fountained hot and red, and she was already rolling away, already finding her feet, already looking for the next threat. But the whole battlefield had devolved into violent scuffling, no more lines, no more formations, just men killing men in the desert heat while the sun watched with its pitiless eye. She stumbled, caught herself, her free hand pressed against the arrow shaft.

Not fatal, she told herself again. Just need to-

Her vision blurred.

She blinked hard, trying to clear it, and that's when she saw him.

Gennon.

He sat astride a white horse perhaps fifty yards away, surrounded by his personal guard- men in armor so polished it hurt to look at. He wasn't fighting. Of course he wasn't fighting. Men like Gennon never dirtied their own hands. But he was watching, his corpulent face split in something that might have been a smile, and even from this distance she could see the satisfaction in his eyes.

He knew.

The poisoned arrow. The bounty. This wasn't random; This was planned.

The careful control she'd maintained since childhood, the leash she'd kept on her rage, snapped like rotted rope.Her eyes widened, pupils blown with fury and poison and a hatred so pure it burned away the weakness in her limbs.

You.

You touched him. You bought him. You marked him with your filth. And now you think you can kill me?

The Swordswoman's hand found Viola's reins. The mare had circled back, trained for war, loyal beyond reason. She hauled herself into the saddle with strength she shouldn't have had, her vision tunneling until all she could see was Gennon's face.

"Move!" she screamed, and Viola leaped forward.

The battlefield became a blur of blue and red. Men scattered from her path or died beneath Viola's hooves. Her sword was still in her hand- when had she drawn it? The dagger was gone, lost somewhere in the sand and blood. Gennon's guards saw her coming. They moved to intercept, but she was already there, already swinging, and her blade took the first one's head off in a spray of arterial red that painted the desert floor.

The second guard raised his spear. She batted it aside, Viola crashing into his horse, and her sword found his throat.

Twenty yards.

Gennon's smile had vanished. He was shouting something, pointing at her, his face purple with rage or fear or both.

Fifteen yards.

Her vision blurred again. The poison was spreading, turning her blood to ice and fire simultaneously. Her fingers were numb on the sword's grip.

Doesn't matter. Just need to reach him.

Ten yards.

She could see his eyes now. Could see the moment he realized she was going to reach him. Could see him yanking his horse's reins, trying to flee, and the satisfaction of his fear was almost as sweet as the kill would be.

Five yards.

The Swordswoman raised her sword, her arm shaking but her aim true. One more second. One more heartbeat. One more-

She felt herself falling- a long, slow tumble through space that seemed to last forever and no time at all. Felt Viola's warmth disappear. The impact of sand against her armor, but distantly, as if it were happening to someone else. The arrow radiated pain through her entire body, but her adrenaline couldn't believe it.

Guts had seen her fall. Through the chaos of clashing steel and screaming men, through the press of bodies and the spray of blood, he'd watched the Swordswoman topple from her horse like a puppet with cut strings. One moment she'd been a whirlwind of violence, the next- nothing.

"Shit," he snarled, already wheeling his horse around.

A Tudor soldier tried to intercept him. Guts's sword took the man's arm off at the shoulder, armor and all, and he didn't slow down. He reached the Swordswoman's crumpled form in seconds, leaning down from his saddle to grab her by the back of her armor. She was deadweight. He hauled her up with a grunt, draping her across his horse's neck before pulling her against his chest. Her head lolled back, eyes rolling white, and then she convulsed.

Vomit sprayed across his armor flecked with blood.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Guts cursed, but his arm tightened around her waist, holding her upright even as she retched again.

A Tudor soldier charged. Guts's blade caught him in the chest, the impact nearly tearing the sword from his grip. He wrenched it free, blood cascading down the fuller, and kicked his horse forward. The Swordswoman slumped against him, her breathing shallow and rapid. Foam had begun to gather at the corners of her mouth.

Poison, Guts realized. Fuck.

He needed to get her back to the lines, to someone who could tend to her.

"Guts!"

Guts looked up to see the White Hawk riding toward them at a full gallop, his composure that usually dressed him shattered into a look that was unusual for the commander. Griffith's eyes locked onto the Swordswoman's foam-flecked lips, and his face went absolutely white.

"How long?" Griffith demanded, his horse skidding to a halt beside them. His hand was already reaching for her, fingers trembling before he seemed to catch himself. "How long has she been like this?"

"Just now," Guts grunted, adjusting his grip as another wave of convulsions wracked her body. "Took an arrow. Poison, I think."

Griffith's jaw clenched so hard Guts could hear his teeth grinding. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, feral flickered across the White Hawk's face. It was panic, then it was gone, replaced by calculation.

"Casca!" Griffith's voice rang out across the battlefield. "Casca!"

The female commander appeared from the chaos, her sword red to the hilt. She took one look at the Swordswoman and her eyes widened.

"Get her to the medical tent. Now." Griffith's voice rang out, "Tell them it's nightshade derivative. Purple-tipped arrows. They'll know the antidote."

"How do you-" Casca started.

"Now!"

Casca flinched. Guts had never seen Griffith raise his voice like that, not to one of his own. The commander grabbed the Swordswoman from Guts's arms, surprisingly strong despite her smaller frame, and wheeled her horse around. Griffith watched them go, his hand still extended as if he wanted to call them back. His fingers curled into a fist.

"Griffith," Guts said carefully. "You good?"

The White Hawk didn't answer for a long moment. His eyes tracked Casca's retreat with such intensity, it made Guts uncomfortable.

"She wasn't supposed to be near the front," Griffith said quietly. His voice had gone flat, emotionless, but somehow that was worse than the shouting. "Laban's orders were explicit. She was to remain with the nobles."

"Yeah, well, you know her." Guts shifted in his saddle. "Doesn't exactly follow orders when she's got blood in her eyes."

"Who was she going for?" Griffith asked, still not looking at him. "Before she fell."

Guts frowned, thinking back. "Gennon. Surrounded by guards. She went through them like they were paper."

"Gennon." The name came out like a curse. Griffith's hand tightened on his reins until the leather creaked. "Of course."

"You know him?"

"I know what he is." Griffith's eyes finally turned to Guts, and there was something in them that made the swordsman want to take a step back. "And I know he's a dead man."

It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same certainty one might use to describe the sunrise. Griffith looked back toward the medical tents one more time, and Guts could have sworn he saw the White Hawk's equanimity slip just for an instant, just enough to reveal the desperation and possessiveness underneath. Then Griffith straightened in his saddle.

"We end this today," he said, his voice carrying across the battlefield with renewed authority. "No more delays. No more half-measures. Doldrey falls before sunset."

He raised his sword, and the sunlight caught it like a falling star.

"Hawks! To me!"

The Band of the Hawk rallied to his call, and Griffith led them forward with a fury that bordered on reckless. Guts followed, but he couldn't shake the image of Griffith's face when he'd seen the Swordswoman's foam-flecked lips.

That hadn't been the look of a commander worried about a valuable soldier. It looked almost like a man watching his entire future slip through his fingers.

In the medical tent, Casca worked frantically over the Swordswoman's convulsing form, forcing the antidote between her lips while her mind raced with questions she didn't dare ask aloud.

How had Griffith known the poison? How had he known the antidote?

And why had he looked at this woman like she was the only thing in the world that mattered?

Casca's hands were steady as she forced the antidote between the Swordswoman's lips, even as foam continued to bubble at the corners of her mouth. The Midland physicians worked quickly, one checking the arrow wound, another preparing poultices, a third mixing compounds whose names Casca didn't know.

"Will she live?" Casca demanded.

The eldest physician, a gray-haired man with ink-stained fingers, didn't look up from his work. "If the antidote takes hold. The poison is sophisticated, its military grade."

Tudor, Casca thought. Has to be Tudor.

The tent flap rustled. Casca's hand went to her sword instinctively, but it was just an assistant bringing more water. She forced herself to breathe, to focus on the Swordswoman's shallow respirations.

When they all heard steel ringing against steel outside.

Casca's blade was in her hand before the sound finished echoing. She spun toward the tent entrance just as a Tudor soldier burst through, his sword already descending toward the nearest physician.

She killed him before he took two steps.

"Protect the wounded!" Casca shouted, but more soldiers were already pouring in- not the standard Tudor blue, but something else. Mercenaries, maybe, or special forces. Their movements were too coordinated, too focused.They weren't here for supplies or easy kills.

Casca planted herself between the Swordswoman's cot and the attackers, her blade singing as it met theirs. One fell. Two. Three. But more kept coming, and the physicians were screaming.

"Casca!"

Judeau slipped in quick enough to not be identified as the enemy, his knives already flying. Two soldiers dropped with blades in their throats before they knew he was there. He moved to her side, his back against hers, and together they formed a wall of steel around the unconscious woman.

"What the hell is this?" Casca snarled, parrying a thrust aimed at her ribs.

"No idea." Judeau's voice was tight with concentration. A knife left his hand and found an eye socket. "But they're not stopping."

They weren't. Wave after wave of soldiers crashed against them like the tide, and Casca's arms began to burn with exhaustion. Beside her, Judeau's breathing grew ragged.

The physicians weren't so lucky.

The first died trying to shield his supplies- a sword through the back that punched out his chest in a spray of red. The second fell defending the medical instruments, her throat opened by a mercenary's dagger. The third lasted longest, an old man who grabbed a scalpel and actually managed to take one attacker's eye before a mace caved in his skull.

Then it was just Casca and Judeau, standing over the Swordswoman's unconscious form while bodies piled up around them.

"This doesn't make sense," Judeau gasped between attacks. He'd switched to his short sword now, his throwing knives exhausted. "Tudor's main force is engaged with Griffith. Why send this many soldiers after one wounded woman?"

"Bounty," Casca said, though even as she spoke, doubt gnawed at her. "One hundred thousand gold pieces."

"For a mercenary, maybe. But these are organized. Coordinated." Judeau drove his blade through a gap in armor, twisted, withdrew.

Another wave hit them. Casca's world narrowed to the space of steel and blood, to the burning in her shoulders, to the copper taste in her mouth. She lost track of time. Lost track of how many she'd killed. Lost track of everything except the rhythm of survival.

Judeau stumbled.

Casca caught him, her free hand grabbing his collar and hauling him upright even as her sword deflected a blow that would have taken his head. "Stay with me!"

"Trying," he wheezed. Blood ran down his face from a cut above his eye. "Casca... the nobles..."

"What?"

"I saw them. Before I came here." He blocked a thrust, barely, his movements growing sluggish. "Laban's coordinating the cavalry like he's done it his whole life. Lyle's holding the eastern flank. They don't need-"

He had to break off to kill another attacker.

"They don't need what?" Casca demanded.

"They don't need her." Judeau's voice was quiet, almost wondering. "Why would they need the Swordswoman to protect them at all?"

She'd wondered the same thing, had seen the way the nobles moved in battle, the competence they hid behind courtly manners. These weren't soft men playing at war. They knew what they were doing. Another wave crashed against them. Casca's blade was notched now, dulled by constant use. Her arms screamed. Beside her, Judeau was swaying on his feet, his sword tip dragging in the blood-soaked earth.

They couldn't fall.

Because behind them, the Swordswoman lay unconscious and vulnerable, foam still flecking her lips, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps that might stop at any moment. The sun crawled across the sky. Minutes became hours. The attacks didn't stop- they just... changed. Smaller groups now, probing, testing. Casca killed them all. Judeau killed them all. The tent became a charnel house, the air thick with the copper stench of blood and the sweeter smell of opened bowels.

Casca's vision began to blur from exhaustion. Her legs stopped feeling like her own, and felt more like stilts. Her sword felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

"How many?" she croaked.

"Lost count," Judeau replied. He was leaning against a tent pole now, his sword held in a two-handed grip because one arm wasn't working right anymore. "Three waves? Four?"

"More."

They stood in silence, listening to the sounds of battle in the distance. Doldrey was falling- Casca could hear it in the changing timbre of the fighting, the way the Tudor war cries were growing fewer and more desperate.

But here, in this blood-soaked tent, the war continued.

"Judeau," Casca said quietly. "This isn’t normal."

"I know."

"Then why?"

He truthfully didn’t know. He answered with raspy breaths and eyes sinking into the ground. All they knew was this: someone wanted the Swordswoman dead. Gennon possibly but with the tides turning, couldn’t the Tudor abandon him now? Take his money after he’s killed?

Behind them, the Swordswoman's breathing hitched, then steadied. Still unconscious. Still alive fortunately.

"Next wave comes," Judeau said, his voice barely a whisper, "I don't think I can-"

"You will," Casca interrupted. Her grip tightened on her sword. "We both will."

The sun continued its descent. The shadows grew long. And in a tent surrounded by corpses, two exhausted warriors stood guard over a woman whose importance they couldn't fathom, waiting for either rescue or death. Whichever came first. But the victory horn sounded across the desert- a long, triumphant note that seemed to shake the very air. Even from their blood soaked tent, they could hear the roar of Midland knights and Hawks alike, their voice raised in savage celebration.

Judeau's lips pulled into a wry smile, though exhaustion had carved it crooked. "I think... we won."

Casca nodded silently. Her sword was still in her hand. She wasn't sure she could let go of it even if she wanted to.

An hour crawled by like a wounded animal. The sounds of battle faded, replaced by the organized chaos of victory- men shouting orders, horses being tended, the wounded being gathered. But in their tent, time seemed suspended. Casca and Judeau remained standing over the Swordswoman's unconscious form, too tired to move, surrounded by a perfect circle of corpses that marked the boundary of their desperate defense.

The stink of death hung in the air like a physical presence- copper and shit and the sweet rot that came when bodies were opened to the desert heat.

Footsteps approached. Heavy ones.

Guts ducked through the tent flap, his armor still painted with blood that wasn't his. He stopped dead when he saw the carnage, his dark eyes widening as he took in the bodies, the exhausted defenders, the woman who still hadn't woken.

"Fuck," he breathed. "What happened here?"

"Tudor wanted her dead," Judeau said flatly. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw. "Really, really wanted her dead."

"How is she?" Guts moved closer, careful not to step on the bodies.

Casca's jaw tightened. "Holding on by a thread. We don't know. After the third wave, the physicians were..." She gestured at the corpses wearing medical robes. "They were killed."

A heavy silence fell over the tent. Guts's hand curled into a fist, and he had the same look he got before he did something spectacularly violent.

"Third wave?" he repeated quietly. "How many were there?"

"Lost count," Judeau admitted. "Five? Six? They just kept-"

He stopped. They all stopped. Because Griffith had stepped into the tent.

The White Hawk moved with his usual grace, but there was something different about him now. His armor was pristine despite the battle- he'd clearly taken time to clean it, to present the perfect image of victory. But his eyes… His eyes went immediately to the Swordswoman.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Griffith stood at the tent's entrance, absolutely still, his gaze fixed on her unconscious form with an intensity that made the air feel thick. His hand rose slowly, as if drawn by invisible strings, reaching toward her before he seemed to catch himself.

The hand fell.

"Everyone out," Griffith said quietly.

"Griffith," Casca started.

"Out." His voice didn't rise, but something in it made even Guts take a step back. "I need to examine her condition. Alone." Judeau and Casca exchanged glances. Neither moved. Griffith's eyes finally left the Swordswoman, turning to them with a look that was equal parts command and something rawer. "You've done well. Both of you. But I need you to leave. Now."

There was no arguing with that tone. Casca sheathed her sword- finally, gods, finally- and stumbled toward the exit. Judeau followed, leaning heavily on Guts's offered arm. But Casca paused at the tent flap, looking back.

Griffith had already moved to the Swordswoman's side. He knelt beside her cot and his hand- that hand that commanded armies, that had never trembled in battle- shook as it reached for her face. His fingers brushed her cheek with a gentleness Casca had never seen from him.

"Griffith?" she said quietly.

He didn't look up. "Close the flap behind you, Casca."

She did.

Inside the tent, alone with the unconscious woman and the circle of corpses that had tried to take her, Griffith finally snapped. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing across her foam-flecked lips. Her skin was cold. Too cold. The poison was still working through her system, and without the physicians...

"Don't you dare," he whispered. His other hand found hers, fingers intertwining with her limp ones. "Don't you dare leave me now. Not when we're so close."

She didn't respond. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, each one seeming weaker than the last.Griffith's jaw clenched. His mind was already working, calculating, planning. The antidote had been administered, he'd made sure Casca knew which one before the battle. But without physicians to monitor her, to adjust the dosage… He needed to get her to the capital. But first, he needed to control the narrative. 

The tent flap opened again. Griffith's expression smoothed into perfect neutrality as he turned, expecting Casca or Guts. Instead, Laban stepped through, his armor still bearing the marks of battle. The older noble's eyes swept the carnage, then settled on Griffith with an understanding that went unspoken.

"The others?" Griffith asked.

"Waiting outside. We've secured the perimeter." Laban moved closer, his voice dropping. "The attacks?"

"Coordinated. Professional." Griffith stood, though his hand lingered on the Swordswoman's for a moment longer. "Someone knew exactly where she'd be."

"Well their reach extends far," Laban said carefully.

"The reach ends today." Griffith's voice was ice. "As far as anyone outside this tent is concerned, this was Gennon. His obsession. His hired killers. His final attempt to eliminate a threat."

Laban's eyebrow rose. "Gennon is-"

"Dead," Griffith interrupted. "I made certain of it personally during the assault on Doldrey. Very publicly. Very messily. The story writes itself- a corrupt Tudor king with a grudge, eliminated by Midland's hero."

"And the truth?"

Griffith's smile was a razor. "An attempt to prevent a succession has failed. Again."

"The others don't know," Laban warned. "They suspect something though."

"And they'll continue to suspect nothing more than Tudor aggression and Gennon's personal vendetta." Griffith turned back to the Swordswoman. "The king’s decree was my insurance policy. Keeping her with you, with the other nobles who know, was the only way to keep her alive." Griffith's hand clenched. "But this was too close."

Laban was quiet for a moment. "What do you need?"

"Time. And silence." Griffith looked at the older noble. "Can you give me both?"

"The nobles will hold the line. We've waited this long." Laban's face softened while glanced at her weak form. "She looks like her father, you know. Kael would be proud of what she's become."

"Kael is dead because he tried to protect her from the same forces." Griffith's voice was flat. "I won't make his mistakes."

The tent flap opened again. This time it was Guts, his expression impatient. "Griffith, the men are asking about her. What do I tell them?"

Grifith turned, his posture shifting from the possessive guardian to the concerned commander in a heartbeat.

"Tell them that Gennon sent assassins. Even in death, his obsession with destroying those close to me continued. But they failed." He gestured to the circle of corpses. "As you can see."

Guts frowned. "The fat bastard she was going after?"

"The same. I killed him myself during the assault." Griffith's smile was cold. "He won't trouble anyone again."

Outside, Casca stood with Judeau, both of them leaning against each other for support. She could hear Griffith's voice through the tent fabric, explaining about Gennon, about obsession, about hired killers.

It made sense.

She remembered a balcony. Before Doldrey. She'd been looking for Griffith to deliver a message and had found him instead with Gennon- the nobleman's hand on Griffith's shoulder, too familiar, too possessive. She'd retreated before being seen, but the image had stayed with her. Griffith had slept with him. She was certain of it. Had sold himself for funds, for influence, for whatever the Band needed. And now Gennon was dead, and his "obsession" with the Swordswoman was the explanation.

But she said nothing. Because Griffith was her commander, and if he said it was Gennon

…then it was Gennon.

Inside the tent, Griffith returned to the Swordswoman's side. His hand found hers again, hidden from view by the angle of the cot.

"Soon," he whispered, so quietly that even Laban couldn't hear.

But the words were swallowed in the air anyway, unspoken but absolute. The Swordswoman's fingers twitched in his grip- just barely, just enough to send hope surging through his chest. She was still fighting.

Good.

He'd taught her that, after all.

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 18 (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.

(No audiobook version developed yet)

Here is the link to: Previous Chapter

Swords battered into the shape of an ‘X’, but she danced around his experience, her blade eventually finding angles that shouldn't exist.

The crowd's murmur grew to a roar. The dueler could feel their eyes pressed upon her every move, Midland soldiers who'd heard whispers of her work, original Band members who knew better than to bet against her fury. His counterattack forced her to leap back. Dust kicked up beneath her boots, coating her throat with grit.

"Getting slow, old man?" she taunted, circling him to spot the slivers of weakness he held in his stance.

Laban's laugh came genuine and breathless. "Just letting you tire yourself out, girl."

But they both knew better. She could see it in the slight tremor of his sword arm, the way his stance had shifted defensive. Time to end this dance. She feinted left, a move so obvious it was insulting and when he moved to counter, she was already gone. She dropped low, swept his legs with hers, and brought her practice blade up in the same fluid motion. The tip pressed against his throat before his back even hit the ground.

Silence. 

Then an eruption.

The Hawks cheered loudest, but even the Midland soldiers couldn't hide their appreciation. She held the position just enough to let the lesson sink in, before offering her hand.

"Good fight," she said, hauling him to his feet. Laban dusted himself off, a wry grin forming despite his defeat.

"Remind me never to challenge you when you're actually trying," he muttered, earning laughs from the crowd.

Laban's laugh was scraped raw by the dust and the strain of the fight. "A lesson I learned the hard way a long time ago," he grunted, the metal of his gauntlet cool against her skin as he found his feet. "A blade thinks faster than a man ever can."

She was about to offer a retort, a sharp-witted thing about an old man's thoughts slowing to a crawl, when a dramatic sigh cut through the dissipating chatter. Owen, with a face that seemed perpetually caught between disapproval and mild indigestion, shook his head as he approached.

"Well, there goes my week's wages," he lamented, clapping Laban on the shoulder with a hollow thud. "I had you down for at least putting her on her back once, Commander."

Laban scoffed, "Then you're a bigger fool than I took you for, Owen. Wasn't wise now, was it?" He shot a glance at the swordswoman, "You wagered against the blood of Kael the Great? I knew Midland bias was a heavy blinder, but I didn't think it was fatal to common sense."

Owen’s face soured, the playful disappointment curdling into a sulk. "She's new to the regiment..." he mumbled. He knew, as they all did, that some bloodlines were rivers, carving their own path through the world, heedless of the landscape. Kael’s was a river of blood and steel.

Before the silence could get too heavy, Judeau came bounding over, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

"See? This is what I'm talking about," he declared to the heavens. "Griffith's got me on detail ‘protecting’ her, and here she is, schooling our veteran commanders. Honestly, it's a little insulting. I feel like a man sent to guard a fortress with a slingshot."

Griffith. The silent leash she’d been trying to forget all morning. She had hoped the sweat and violence would be enough to scrub the memory of their conversation from her mind, but here it was, brought back by Judeau's easy tongue. She replied with a brittle laugh, too quick and too loud. She ducked out from under Judeau's arm, hoping the movement looked more like playfulness than escape.

"Someone has to keep you out of trouble, Judeau." She pointed a thumb toward the distant clatter of pots and barrels near the center of the camp. "All this talking is making me thirsty. I’ll be right back around.”

Before she could even hear him, his voice was swallowed by the crowd that funnelled towards the field. The canteen by the supply wagon called to her like salvation. She'd barely finished her second gulp when movement caught her eye, a Midland knight hovering nearby with polished armor and nervous energy. He was young. They all seemed young these days. Clean-shaven, with that particular shine that hadn't been worn down by too many winters on campaign. His smile beamed fresh, untouched whippings of the harsh life on the campaign.

"That technique," he started, then stopped, then started again. "The way you dropped and swept- I've never seen anything like it."

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, considering him with the same interest she'd give a mildly amusing beetle. "It's not complicated. Use their strength against them. Move where they don't expect."

His eyes went wide like she'd just revealed the secrets of the universe. "But the timing- the precision required-"

"Practice," she cut him off.  "Lots of practice and plenty of scars."

He faltered in his steel boots before bowing to her enough to make her brows furrow in confusion. 

“The name’s Arnold, you can just call me a fan.” His back straightened with a sheepish smile. 

“Sir Arnold… right.” She said and the silence between them stretched enough for her to avert her gaze to an escape to sit down in. Preferably in the quiet, away from him.

“I have duties to attend to.” She replied amidst the silence between them and he moved to speak but his propped open jaw offered nothing more than an awkward squeak. She left him there, still gaping, probably composing epic ballads in his head about the mysterious swordswoman of the Hawks. Let him. Reality had a way of grinding those fantasies to dust soon enough. The evening had crept up while she wasn't watching, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow. She needed space, needed to wash the day's sweat and spectacle from her skin. The stream she'd spotted earlier would do.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

Casca sat by a small fire, one of the only ones next to the camp as the sun was setting. Probably the midland military was pissing away responsibilities with drinking. For some reason Casca lingered next to the Midland camp. So still she might've been carved from the same stone as the rocks around her. The firelight caught in her dark eyes trapped. Whatever thoughts held her, they ran deep enough to drown in. The swordswoman found herself drawn forward, like iron to lodestone. She'd seen Casca in battle commanding troops with an authority that made grown men snap to attention. But this Casca, caught in some private contemplation, was different. When those copper eyes finally found hers, they narrowed to slits. The usual dance, then. The territorial atmosphere bloomed between them. 

Except... she was just too damn tired for it tonight.

She dropped onto a log across from Casca with all the grace of a sack of grain. Fire crackled, filling the silence with its ancient conversation. Somewhere in the distance, autumn whispered threats of the winter to come, its chill already starting to bite through her sweat-dampened clothes.

"Thank you." Her words were so quiet she almost missed them. Casca still stared into the fire. "For the willow bark. It..." A pause, weighted with pride struggling against gratitude. "It came in handy. After Guts and I fell. Off that cliff."

The swordswoman blinked. Of all the things she'd expected, gratitude hadn't made the list. She studied Casca's profile and in it, it felt like it spoke to her more than Casca’s words itself. 

"Must've been some fall," The swordswoman said finally.

Casca laughed, "You could say that."

The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling into the darkening sky. Silence that settled between them was a different beast than the quiet before. She watched the flames lick at a fresh piece of pine, the sap popping like miniature skirmishes. In the world of the Hawks, you were a tool, a weapon. You were judged by your edge, your durability. No one ever stopped to ask if the sword was weary. So when Casca’s voice, rough as whetstone, cut through the crackling fire, it startled her more than any ambush ever could.

"And you?" Casca asked, her gaze still fixed on the dancing flames. "How are you holding up in this new, polished world?"

The question was so unexpected, that for a moment, the swordswoman's mind was a fortress besieged by a gentle inquiry it had no defense against. She nearly laughed. How was she? She was a storm kept in a bottle, that’s how she was.

"I think I'd rather listen to Corkus whine about his treatment for a year straight than spend another day taking tea with some powdered commander," she finally admitted, "They look at you, but they don't see you."

Casca made a small sound of agreement, a note of grim understanding. "It's understandable. You're not built for that. I always knew this was part of the dream. But we are all sitting at the table and the fancy chairs feel so uncomfortable, you know? Even before we are fully seated in them."

The swordswoman nodded "It's more than that." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, feeling the heat of flames press on her face, "I feel… Trapped. My duty is to watch commanders, to be the final wall for them. Nothing is more important, I know that. But it's a feeling I can't shake. Like… I’m not… sacrificing enough."

Casca finally turned her head’ eyes met the swordswoman across the flames.

"Is that my voice you hear?" she asked, her tone dry. "The one that called you pampered?"

The swordswoman’s jaw tightened. She didn't  look away, but the truth was there. She gave a  nod. It was part of it. A sliver of the truth, at least.

Casca seemed to understand her. Or at least gave the Swordswoman a look that did. "Who are you stacking your sacrifices against?" she pressed, her voice low. "Guts, who throws his body into the meat grinder every chance he gets? Me? Judeau?"

Crackling continued to devour the quiet. None of the names felt like the right answer. None of them were the standard she held herself to.

"Or is it him?" Casca whispered, and the question landed not like a stone, but like a perfectly thrown dagger. "Is it Griffith you're measuring yourself against?"

The air stilled. The distant sounds of the camp faded to nothing. There was only the fire, and Casca’s unflinching gaze, and a truth that felt heavier than any armor. She stared into the heart of the flames, watching them consume the wood, turning sacrifice into light and heat.

"Maybe," she said.

Casca blinked, "Trying to out-sacrifice Griffith is a task harder than ending the Hundred Year War on your own. Do you have any concept of what he's given up?"

The swordswoman bristled, "I have an idea."

"Do you? Do you see the nights he doesn't sleep, a ghost haunting maps while we rest? The hollowed-out smiles he plasters on for every sycophantic noble? The way he cuts pieces from his own soul to pave this road for us?" She leaned in, the firelight catching the feral glint in her eyes. "Every step is a price. I think he even..."

She stopped. The sentence died in her throat, strangled by a sudden, fierce reluctance.

“What?” The swordswoman dared her to continue.

“I think he even had to appease Gennon.” Images flashed in the swordswoman's mind, unbidden and grotesque: the portly, sweating governor, his eyes like those of a pig rooting in filth. The thought was a clot of bile rising in her throat.

"Gennon?" she repeated, “What are you talking about?"

Casca’s silence was louder than a war horn. She had pulled back a curtain she never meant to, and now she was desperately trying to close it. The swordswoman smelled the secret, a scent like old blood. She leaned forward, her entire being focused into a single point.

"What exactly do you mean, Casca?"

Casca averted her gaze, finally looking back into the fire as if searching for an escape in the flames. She let out a long, weary sigh, the fight draining from her. "I saw them," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Years ago. On a balcony. It was just a moment, but… it wasn't right." She paused, picking her words with the care of someone disarming a trap. "You know the rumors. The whispers about him and the old vipers in court."

The swordswoman didn't reply. She knew. They were just that. Whispers. Venom spat by jealous rivals. She'd never given them weight.

"After that night," Casca continued, “he changed. Just a little. Griffith had plenty of chances to get Gennon's patronage back then, but he never took them. It was only after more than a few children died… that things got desperate." She shook her head. "He said it was for money."

Money.

The word felt pathetic, an insult to the act her mind was now painting in horrific detail. It didn't make sense. It was a trade that made no profit. A molten rage surged through the swordswoman, hot and blinding. The cold logic of it was blasphemy. It was an excuse. A story they told themselves to make the monstrous seem noble.

"How would you know that?" she snapped, the words cracking like a whip. "How could you possibly know that's why?"

"Because," she said, her voice flat and final, "he told me his reasons for it after I witnessed it."

The swordswoman stood abruptly. She didn’t want to hear it anymore. She’d rather clasp her ears with the comfortability of not knowing what Casca meant at this moment. "I'm turning in." 

Her back turned to Casca as a necessary shield. She could feel the heat of Casca's gaze on her spine, but more than that, she felt the scalding tracks of tears carving paths through the grime on her cheeks. She did not dare wipe them away. To acknowledge them would be to break completely. She did not wait for a reply, did not grant the courtesy of an exit. She walked, then her walk quickened, each step an attempt to outrun the phantom of hurt that followed her. The camp was finally a tapestry of low fires and softer conversations. Judeau, leaning against a weapons cart and polishing a throwing knife, caught her eye. His face split into an easy smile.

"Night, Commander! See you don't dream of beating up any more old Midland vets!" His cheerful voice was unknowingly torturous. She felt it strike her, and her stride never faltered. She passed him as if he were a ghost she could not see, a sound she could not hear.

She ripped the canvas flaps aside with a ferocity that sent them snapping against the tent ropes. Her eyes, burning with unshed tears, scanned the familiar space- the campaign desk, the folded armor, the fur-lined bedroll. She was looking for him. Looking for the falcon, the white hawk, for the center of her world. But the tent held a hollow echo. An emptiness that was a physical presence, a cold and waiting thing. And the truth struck her with the force of a mace to the ribs: Of course he wasn't here. He would be out, charming some noble, securing some new alliance, and he would not return until the faint candlelight from her tent was long extinguished, until he was sure she was lost to the shores of sleep. A quiet, bloodless maneuver to avoid a battle he had no taste for.

The lump in her throat was a golem of unshed grief, thick and suffocating. She needed air, needed water, needed something to wash away the feeling of filth that clung to her not on her skin, but inside it. She grabbed a towel and headed for the lake to bathe with her head ducked low. She slipped into the steaming water in a secluded corner, wedged between rocks, hiding from the gentle inquiries of her attendant, Elara, whose kindness felt like an accusation. The water was hot, but it could not scald away the chill that had taken root in her bones. The cleansing was a lie. When she returned, dripping and colder than before, the tent was just as she had left it. Empty. Silent. The quiet was no longer peaceful. It was an answer. A confirmation. A gaping void where a god used to be. The silence in the tent wasn't just quiet. It breathed in all the cold spaces he'd left behind. It pooled in the shadows his armor cast, settled into the folds of his untouched bedroll, and clung to every surface like morning frost. She sat on her cot feeling like a ghost haunting her own life, while Casca's words ate at her insides like slow-acting poison.

Lied to.  

Every thought was another strike of the pickaxe, chipping away at foundations she hadn't even known were holding her up. But then that cold, cruel voice of reason would slither back:

Lied to about what, exactly?  

He didn't owe her those kinds of truths. They were commander and soldier. Their bond had been forged in blood and battle. What claim did she have on his secrets?

The question mocked her, because the pain was real enough. It wasn't about having some right to his body. It was about thinking she'd earned his trust. Why Casca? Why had he peeled back that raw, wounded part of himself for her, but not for the one who'd sworn to be his shadow until death- true even if unspoken? Gennon was a grotesque key, unlocking doors in her memory she'd never thought to examine. All those endless court functions. The closed-door meetings with ministers who'd looked at Griffith like starving dogs eyeing fresh meat. Had he sold pieces of himself to them too? Was his glorious ascent paved not just with enemy corpses, but with the quiet, debasing currency of his own flesh. The thought was blasphemy. It took the sublime myth of what Griffith was to her and turned it into some grim merchant's ledger. Now she’d get it. It made her spiral all the more deeper. The Falcon had soared to heights where the air was too thin for truth-sharing, where every offering was his alone to make and hide. She sat there waiting, the lamp's flame matching the stubborn burn of anger in her chest.She lost count how long she stared at the tent’s walls, making the world's edges go soft and strange. Her body, wrung out from sparring and this emotional siege, started betraying her. Her head dipped from a slow surrender to exhaustion.

A faint rustle of canvas yanked her back from the edge of sleep.

He moved like a ghost in his own tent. The lamplight caught the wet gleam of his silver hair, combed back from a face that looked carved from moonlight and exhaustion. Just a simple linen tunic, armor already shed, his skin scrubbed clean of whatever filth, political or otherwise, the night had smeared on him. Already bathed. He went still when he saw her, she could only guess he seemed surprised and he looked immaculate while he did. And she'd never felt dirtier in his presence before. More than probably he felt for himself, god knows. His stillness was the best armor for him at that moment.

"We need to talk." The words felt clumsy and wrong in her mouth, like a blade she'd never meant to draw against him.

His gaze met hers, "About what?"

The sound that escaped her was hidden beneath the blindness caused by her emotions. She shook her head and only then felt the wetness on her cheeks. Crying without permission. The question felt like dragging broken glass across her throat. "Gennon," she managed, the name itself feeling obscene. "The Tudor King. Why would you be with him?"

His eyes narrowed and the silence stretched for so long it hurt to sit in it. Finally, his voice came out, "The Band can't conjure money from thin air."

The sheer bloodlessness of it stole her breath. A yell started building in her chest but died in her throat, strangled by his cold logic. This was just accounting to him. Numbers in columns. The dueler dragged in a shaky breath, trying to forge her fury into something sharper.

 "Was it for money?" Her voice trembled. "Your... time with him?" The next words barely made it out. "Do you even like men?"

He didn't even flinch while his composure was a wall of ice. "I don't like Gennon, but the king likes men. Particularly me. Our coffers were empty, the men needed proper steel and medicine. It was a necessary strategy."

Strategy.

The word broke her. The myth of him in her eyes cracked open to reveal the cold merchant underneath. He was a fortress, calmly explaining how he'd sold his own stones for gold. Her last thread of restraint snapped. "Strategy?" She sobbed and tears came freely now. "You're hurting yourself! You're... you're selling your body! "

“For my dream. And for that, we need money."

Words knocked all the air from her lungs. "I don't want that," she sobbed,  words crumbling under their own weight. "I don't want you to have to sell your body for this dream!"

"Quiet down.” He hissed, stepping forward as if to silence her then.

"Don't you tell me shit!" she screamed, her voice cracking raw and ugly in the tent's confines. The dam had shattered. Years of unspoken devotion, of silent worship, came flooding out as pure betrayal. "You slept with the bastard! The bastard that rules over the same filth that killed my father!" She saw him differently now. As a tainted being touted beneath sheep’s wool for once, something that had traded away pieces she'd thought were sacred. 

He moved faster than thought. One moment he stood by the entrance, the next his hands locked around her wrists like shackles. "I am the only chance you have of ever avenging him. I am the only path to the power you need to burn their world to the ground. And you are too short-sighted to see it."

She twisted against his grip, turned her face away from those arctic eyes, as if looking at him any longer might freeze her solid. Tears blurred everything, turning the tent into a smear of lamplight and shadow. He didn't let go. If anything, his hold tightened, keeping her from drifting into the abyss. 

He tells her, "I am the one who must always see the next ten steps." Each word was a stone laid on some invisible path only he could walk. "While the rest of you fumble in the dark, I drag us forward. Without these sacrifices- without me carving pieces from my own hide to feed the dream, you'd have thrown yourself on some nameless sword years ago."

She sucked in breathes believing in some way he was right. He'd been her anchor, the star she followed, pulling her back from the edge of self-destruction. But that salvation felt scalding now. "Did it hurt?" The whisper escaped before she could stop it. There was no need to specify it. It was about the hidden wounds, the quiet violations, the pieces of himself he'd traded away for progress. Before tonight, before the veil got torn, had he felt the pain? Blue eyes widened, ogling into hers like she'd found some vault he'd sealed shut years ago. The air thickened with ghosts of unsaid confessions before he finally spoke.

"It was necessary." He said.

A sigh escaped her, weary and defeated, carrying the weight of battles fought in places that had no names. "I have a headache," she murmured. Finally, he let her go and turned to his bedroll, unrolling it across the tent floor. The fabric whispered against the ground, filling the sudden void with soft sounds. The swordswoman watched him, body curling inward on itself over the cot. But the question clawed its way out, born from the vivid ghost of a memory that still set her skin aflame. The night his touch had unraveled her, coaxed from her a release so profound it had felt like stars exploding in her veins, a moment that eclipsed all of the world's cruelties and problems for her to stave and solve. 

"Why did y ou touch me before? Why… like that?" She asked it out some sick way of measuring herself up to his dalliances before.

He paused in his task with his back to her. When he turned, he looked lost in his own reasons, "I don't exactly know why. Outside of… it just felt right. At that moment, I wanted it."

He regarded her, curled like a wounded animal in the dim glow, and a sigh slipped from her, "I haven't done any of that recently. It was back then, before we ever got this close. Before all of this… what we have now."

Sorrow that welled up in fresh sniffles, hot and insistent against her resolve. She shook her head, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, the motion as futile as trying to dam a river with bare fists. "It's not about that," she managed, her voice breaking on the rocks of unshed tears. "It's about the man I lo-" The confession faltered, she corrected it swiftly, desperately, as if the slip had been a fatal misstep on a narrow ledge. "We grew up together. I care about you. And you know you hated every second of it."

"I have agency over my own body, Ultimately, it's my decision. And Gennon… he was fueling his own demise without even realizing it."

He looked back at her, those blue eyes searching for something in her averted gaze, but she turned away. She stared into the tent's dim corners where shadows pooled like spilled ink, hiding the raw edges of her breaking heart. She lay there for some time, still as a fallen statue, the weight of his revelations pressing her into the thin mattress. The air grew thick with everything unsaid until finally, his voice cut through- softer than she'd ever heard it.

"I'm sorry." The words came reluctant, tasting of unfamiliar humility. "More so for betraying you than anything else."

A bitter scoff bubbled up. She didn't look at him, couldn't bear to see that perfect composure cracking. "That's a first."

"I want to avenge you, too," he confessed, the words stagnant in dim lighting. "Sleeping with the enemy... it was hard for me to push through. For those reasons exactly."

Hurt wrapped them like a confessional, muffling the outside world until all that remained was their shared breath and unspoken torments. Every sound amplified. She lay there, coiled tight with fury and grief, his apology still echoing- strange and almost unreal from a man who rarely bent to regret.

"When?" The question slipped out of her. "When did it happen?"

He didn't answer immediately. She could sense him there, more presence than shape in the gloom. When his voice came, it was measured. "Before the campaign. Years ago, back when the Band was still scraping by on scraps and promises. I remember seeing Casca there, in the shadows- her eyes wide, like she'd stumbled onto a battlefield she wasn't meant to witness. But I went through with it anyway. We needed the money for supplies. Armor that wouldn't shatter on the first charge, medicine that could actually heal instead of just delaying death. It was a choice, like any other."

Words painted truths she didn't want to see. She stared at him, straining to read his face for cracks in that armor of resolve. "Is it worth it?" Her voice came out fragile, quivering with doubt. 

He shifted slightly, and when he spoke, it was with quiet certainty. "We've been successful. Less deaths. So yes."

The darkness had become suffocating, her emotions churning like a storm-tossed vessel taking on water with every revelation. A laugh tore from her- ragged, wet with tears that wouldn't stop. 

"After all this, I nearly want to quit this whole damn campaign. Walk away from this dream. Whatever the hell it is."

He snapped to her. "Take it back." His words were laced with fury that bordered on desperation. "Don't jest about that. Not now. Not ever."

"I'm not." Her haphazard decision propelled her forward. She reached for the smaller second lamp with trembling hands, fumbling until her fingers found the flint. A spark caught, bloomed into flame, throwing their shadows long and monstrous against the canvas. She began gathering her things- cloak over her arm, boots snatched from the floor. Then he was on her instantly, His hand closed around the lamp, ripping it from her grasp and setting it aside with controlled force. Those sapphire eyes bored into hers. "You would die if you went out there." It was a prophecy slithering between his lips. "The world beyond these banners is a graveyard for fools who think they can stand alone."

"I can handle myself." Defiance flared, her chin lifting in challenge. His hand moved to the sword at his belt, drawing it nearly silent.

"Lay back down and sleep." He held his stance.

She stopped breathing. Her eyes widened, heart hammering. He was going to... attack her? "Put it away," she whispered, voice cracking, hands raising in surrender. "Griffith- put the weapon away-!"

"You will not leave me!"

The air between them turned thick as tar. She swallowed hard enough for spittle to scrape her throat. His blade hovered there, but she met his eyes with the last of her defiance. He's bluffing. The thought was desperate, a gambler's last coin. "You wouldn't," she whispered, stepping forward to brush past him. But he was no bluff. His free hand hooked her arm, twisting and before she could breathe, her body hit the ground. The impact jarred through her bones like a cavalry charge. She air knocked out of her chest, confusion blooming like poison in her chest. Pain shot through her shoulder, the joint screaming on the edge of dislocation. She writhed beneath him, muscles straining against the cage of his body as he straddled her. His weight was immovable, knees bracketing her hips, hands like iron on her wrists that pulled them over her head. The lamplight threw their struggle in twisting shadows across the canvas walls.

"You would die out there because you're actively being hunted. Tudor mercenaries slinking through the borders with knives meant for your throat." He leaned closer, breath hot against her ear, "Those bounties you spoke of? They left a paper trail straight to the coffers of hunters. Rewards fattened from a void I’m still trying to figure out."

She twisted again- futile. His grip held like ancient roots in a storm. "I won't let you leave knowing that. Not while they're waiting to claim your head." He paused, simmering in his contemplation while her wrists began to ache. Then the admission slipped out reluctantly. "It could be because Gennon is still after me." His voice dipped into rare uncertainty. "I'm not sure. But the shadows point that way- his grudges festering like untreated wounds."

She flinched, involuntary, her mind reeling from the image of that bloated spider still spinning webs from afar. But Griffith didn't relent, didn't soften. His hold was an anchor in her storm, refusing to let her drift into the abyss.

"I just want to protect everyone," he pressed on, his words solemn in the lamp's unforgiving glow. "I don't want my men, any of you, to die needlessly, bleeding out on some forgotten field when there's an easier way. A path that spares the senseless slaughter." His eyes bored into hers, sapphire depths churning with something that bordered on pleading. "And you... you're being selfish, not realizing that. Throwing yourself into fate's jaws, blind to the greater design. This isn't just about you- it's about all of us."

The words were a white flag in a war she no longer had strength to wage. "Fine," she relented, her voice frayed at the edges. "I understand." It was less conviction than exhaustion, a river finally yielding to its dam, but in that yielding, something fragile bloomed- tentative as first light over a bloodied field. He relented then, slightly. The iron grip softened like cooling steel, his weight easing as if testing the waters of trust. But he didn't fully withdraw. Instead, his hand moved with foreign gentleness, brushing a stray lock from her face tender, like clearing mist from something sacred. His fingers lingered, tracing down to her neck where he found her pulse, feeling the frantic drum of her heart beneath his touch. It was intimate cartography, mapping her life force, soothing the storm inside.

"I want to make it safe for you, too," he murmured, voice low as a hymn. "A world where you can stand without shadows nipping at your heels."

She scowled, the expression twisting their fragile truce into something barbed. The touch meant to mend felt like salt in wounds- a reminder of distances he'd imposed, chasms he'd carved between them.

"Stop." She wriggled just enough to underscore her words, voice laced with old hurts. "You've wanted nothing but to disappear ever since you last... ate me out. Like I was some indulgence you'd regret come morning." He paused, fingers stilling against her skin. His eyes held hers with rare, unguarded intensity, peeling back layers of armor to reveal the man beneath the myth. "I did that," he admitted, tone steady but edged with something raw, "because if I hadn't pulled away, I would have fucked you. Buried myself in you until the world fell away. And you would have ended up swollen with my child in the heart of our biggest campaign. A distraction, a vulnerability we couldn't afford."

Words were lightning from clear sky. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, spreading like wildfire through her veins. She was stunned silent, mind whirling with shock and unspoken desires, the vivid imagery rooting her in place- a statue caught in revelation's glow, blushing and wordless in the flickering lamplight. She faltered into silence. All that remained was the sound of their breathing. His measured, hers ragged. He leaned forward, his intention clear in the tilt of his head, lips seeking hers like a moth to flame. But she snapped her face away.

"Don't touch me. This isn't over until my bones are stained with his blood through my hands."

He paused, suspended in that rejected space between them. His eyes narrowed. Then he stood, finally releasing her from the cage of his body, allowing her limbs to remember their freedom. Without another word, he moved to his bedroll. She remained where she was, too disgusted- with him, with herself, with this entire twisted tapestry- to speak. The silence that settled between them was armistice, temporary and fragile. She crawled to her own bedroll and surrendered to a sleep that brought no rest, only darkness.

And well,

the next battle that loomed before them was Doldrey.

It hung over the camp as a storm cloud, spoken of in hushed, reverent tones as the most crucial battle of their campaign. The fortress that could turn the tide, break the stalemate, crown their ambitions or bury them. And somewhere within those walls waited the being who had dared to touch Griffith before she ever could. Who fostered the plan that killed her father. The thought was pathetic- she knew it, felt the shame of it burning in her chest like swallowed coals. Griffith likely didn't deserve that particular poison she was feeding herself. But she couldn't help it. The image of those rugged, entitled hands on Griffith's skin affected her more than it seemed to affect him.

When the battle morning came, she was already withdrawn deep inside her armor. Atop Viola, she was a statue of war. The armor wasn't just protection; it was sanctuary, a shell between her and the world that had grown too sharp to touch. 

Judeau rode up beside her, his horse's hooves beating a nervous rhythm against the packed earth. His face, usually bright with easy smiles, was creased with concern. "You alright?" The question hung in the morning mist, gentle as it was unwanted.

She didn't speak. Didn't even turn her head. The horizon held all her attention- or seemed to.

"Geez," he sighed, trying for levity but landing somewhere closer to hurt. "You're having a streak of ignoring me, aren't you?"

For once, the cold that had settled in her bones found its voice. She turned to him, and her eyes through the helmet's slit were winter itself. "Look forward if you plan on protecting me like Griffith asked you to." Each word was devoid of the warmth she'd once shown freely. "There's a bounty on my head. Focus on that instead."

Judeau's face shifted, the easy camaraderie replaced with something more professional, more distant. He nodded once and turned his attention to the battlefield ahead, where Doldrey rose like a tooth from the earth, waiting to draw blood. Around them, the Band of the Hawk prepared for war- weapons checked, prayers whispered, final letters tucked against hearts that might stop beating before the day was done. But she felt separate from it all, enclosed in her metal tomb.

The fortress walls seemed to mock her from miles away. It looked larger farther away than it did close. Somewhere behind those stones was Gennon, the name alone made bile rise in her throat. Not just an enemy general but a piece of Griffith's past she'd never known existed. Worse, she would have to look upon him, knowing what she knew, knowing what those hands had done, knowing that Griffith had allowed it for the sake of dreams and coins. For lives. She felt selfish but didn’t at the same time. 

Her grip tightened on Viola's reins. The mare, sensing her rider's turmoil, shifted restlessly, hooves dancing in place. But she held her still, held herself still, became the very embodiment of controlled violence waiting to be unleashed.

This was Doldrey. This was the crucial battle. This was where dreams would be won or lost. And she would ride into it carrying wounds no armor could protect.

With a Side of Tobasco: Chapter 2 (Douma x Reader) [18+]

The reporter and researcher had spent her life putting to use her paranormal hunting experience around the world... she's close to making a breakthrough, cultivating enough evidence of demons. She takes the opportunity to prove her name as to discover definitive proof of demons. Unfortunately, Japan's demons are a different breed and the tabasco she carries would certainly come in handy if anything else didn't.

The Researcher let out a nervous laugh that sounded more like a dying accordion than actual mirth. "Okay… talk. Sure. That's… that's a normal thing to do with demons at midnight. Very casual."

"Wonderful!" He clasped his hands together, "Tell me about your work. You mentioned hunting demons? That must be fascinating."

"I-" She glanced around, half-expecting there to be some sort of set up or trap. But the demon just stood there, radiating this kind of patient interest usually reserved for kindergarten teachers listening to five-year-olds explain dinosaurs. "I'm a paranormal journalist. I investigate supernatural occurrences and write about them."

"Oh, how delightful!" He spotted a cracked stone bench near the torii gate and settled onto it before patting the space beside him.

"Please, sit. I'd love to hear more."The Researcher approached the bench like it might be rigged with explosives, lowering herself onto the very edge, maintaining maximum sprinting distance. "You… you actually want to hear about my demon hunting?” He chuckled. "I find human perspectives endlessly entertaining. Please, continue."

"Well…" She fidgeted with her camera strap. "I've been doing this for about six years now. Started with a possessed doll in Romania - nasty little thing that kept rearranging itself in locked cases. Then there was the skinwalker incident in Arizona, some really aggressive ghosts in the London Underground, a cursed mirror in Prague…"

"Prague!" His eyes lit up with recognition."Was that the basement full of mirrors that showed viewers their worst fears?"

"You heard about that?"

"The supernatural community gossiped about it for weeks. Seven mirrors, each one containing a fragment of some Victorian occultist's soul?" He shook his head admiringly.

"Whoever cleared that out must have had serious skills." The Researcher felt an absurd flush of pride. "That… that was me, actually. Took three days and more salt than a pretzel factory, but I got them all contained."

"Incredible! How did you manage the third mirror? The one that supposedly drove viewers to madness?" And somehow, impossibly, she found herself relaxing slightly, warming to the topic. "Oh, that was tricky. I had to wear a blindfold and navigate by touch, using thermal imaging to-"

She stopped mid-sentence, reality crashing back. "Well… I'm discussing trade secrets with a demon who eats people. Speaking of which," she continued, her voice hardening, "are you the one who's been killing everyone in this town?"

He sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes like a teenager asked about homework.

"Yes, fine, that's me. Happy now?"

"Happy? You've killed thirty people!"

"Thirty-two, actually. There was one this morning they haven't found yet." He said it as casually as someone admitting they'd forgotten to return a library book. "But in my defense, I'm hungry most of the time. Comes with being Upper Moon Rank Two."

The Researcher froze, her blood turning to ice water in her veins. "Upper… Upper Moon-"

She knew that title. Every demonologist worth their salt knew about the Upper Moon demons - the twelve most powerful demons in existence, directly serving under the Demon King himself. Beings so powerful that entire armies had fallen trying to stop just one. "Rank… Two?" The words came out as barely a whisper.

"Oh?" He tilted his head. "You didn't know? How awkward. I thought the silver-throwing and holy water made it obvious I wasn't just some garden-variety demon." Her hands were shaking now. Upper Moon Two. She was sitting on a bench having a casual conversation with one of the most dangerous beings on the planet. The kind of demon that could level cities, that had probably been killing humans since before her country existed.

"I should probably be running now," she said faintly.

"Probably," he agreed cheerfully. Then, moving faster than her eyes could track, he plucked something from her hair. She flinched back, but he was already holding up his prize - a cherry blossom petal that must have fallen on her at the shrine."Watch this,"he said, and breathed on the petal. Ice crystals spread across the delicate pink surface instantly, transforming it into something that looked carved from frozen glass. The petal sparkled in the starlight, impossibly beautiful and utterly wrong - spring transformed to winter with just a breath.

"Jesus Christ," she gasped, jerking back so hard she nearly fell off the bench.

"Wrong deity, but I appreciate the sentiment." He held out the frozen petal to her. "Here. A souvenir."

"You… you can freeze things?"

"あなたは本当に可愛いね,"he said with a warm chuckle. "Among other things, yes. Ice is something of a specialty."

"What did you just call me?"

"Cute," he translated, his grin widening at her expression. "I… what… you can't just…" But somehow, impossibly, she found her fear fracturing around the edges. He was still a demon, still Upper Moon Two, still admitted to eating thirty-two people. But he was also sitting here complimenting her and making ice sculptures from flower petals.

"okay… alright," she muttered. "Am I being charmed by a demon?"

"Not charmed," he corrected. "That would imply supernatural influence. You're just discovering that I'm excellent company. Completely different thing."

"You literally eat people!"

"Yes, but I do it with style." He twirled the frozen petal between his fingers. "Would you prefer I be brooding and melodramatic? Lots of demons go that route. All 'cursed existence' and 'eternal torment.' Personally, I find it exhausting."

Despite everything, the danger, the insanity, the fact that she was probably going to die- the Researcher found herself fighting back a smile. It was amazing seeing just how varied their personalites are. Many demons admittedly did seem melodramatic. Douma on the other hand… that is a different character in her demonology book..

"You're not what I expected honestly," she admitted.

"Oh? What did you expect?"

"I don't know. More doom and gloom. Ominous pronouncements. Maybe some dramatic weather effects."

"I can do dramatic weather effects!" He perked up like she'd offered him a treat. "Would you like to see? I do an excellent sudden blizzard."

"No!" She held up both hands. "No weather effects. This is already weird enough." He laughed again, the sound surprisingly warm for someone who could apparently freeze her solid with a breath.

"Fair enough. Though I do think you're handling this remarkably well for someone who just learned they're having tea with one of the twelve most dangerous demons alive."

"We're not having tea."

"We could be."

The Researcher stared at him. "Are you… are you asking me on a date?"

"More of a friendly outing between a demon and the human who tried to season herself for consumption. We could call it cultural exchange."

she murmured faintly, "I once spent six hours trapped in a haunted elevator with a possessed businessman who only spoke in tax law. This is somehow stranger"

"Now that sounds like a story!"  He leaned forward with interest.  "Was it a vengeful accountant spirit, or…?"

And that's how she found herself, against all logic and survival instinct, telling Upper Moon Two about the most boring possession in recorded history while he laughed at all the right parts and asked surprisingly insightful questions about spectral tax fraud. The frozen cherry blossom petal lay between them on the bench, catching starlight like a promise that this wouldn't end in her death.

“Its… complicated.” She sighed, before studying him further. She settled with the fact that she would already be dead by the time of their encounter through just strength alone. Even though he comes off charming and great to talk with, he could snap her in half if she were to try to run before she could even process it. Would asking him to go back to the inn piss him off? The frozen cherry blossom petal lay between them on the bench, catching starlight like a promise that this wouldn't end in her death.

“You’re scared? Your heart is ticking faster?” He asked as his kanji laden eyes stared into hers. Right, super hearing… great.

The Researcher sighed, the weight of her terrible life choices settling on her shoulders like a lead blanket. "No- um… Fine, I’ll get tea. But this is strictly for research purposes. Demonology studies. Maybe an interview if you're feeling chatty about your murder habits."

His face lit up, "Wonderful! When shall we go? Right now? I have proper beds at my place - you're probably more comfortable with those than futons."

"I have a futon at home," she said defensively. He shrugged with the casual elegance of someone who'd never had to assemble IKEA furniture.

"We have futons too, if you prefer. Options are important." She fixed him with a look that could have curdled milk.

"Your place. The Upper Moon Demon's lair. That's where you want me to go. For 'cultural exchange.'"

"It sounds so ominous when you put it like that. I prefer to think of it as a well-appointed residence with excellent amenities and only occasional screaming from the basement."

"That's not reassuring!"

"I'm joking!"  He paused.

"Mostly. The screaming is actually quite rare." She dragged a hand down her face. "I need to call someone. If I'm going to do something this monumentally stupid, someone needs to know where I am. For body recovery purposes."

"Of course!" He gestured magnanimously.

"Please, take your time. I'll just sit here and practice looking non-threatening."

"You literally just told me about the screaming basement."

"Allegedly screaming. Could be the wind." She walked a few feet away, pulling out her phone with the resignation of someone about to deliver their own eulogy. Mikey picked up on the second ring.

"You alive? Or is this a ghost calling to tell me you're haunting my ass?"

"Mikey, I need you to listen very carefully and try not to freak out."

"Oh Jesus. Starting a conversation like that? What happened? Did you find the demon?"

"Well… yes and no."

"The fuck does that mean? Either you found a demon or you didn't."

She glanced back at the demon, who was indeed practicing looking non-threatening by examining his nails with exaggerated casualness. "Okay, so I found the demon. But plot twist - he's actually pretty charming."

"Charming? Charming?! Are you out of your goddamn mind? Ted Bundy was charming! Charles Manson was charming!"

"He's not technically a serial killer," she said weakly. "More of a… supernatural predator with specific dietary needs."

"Oh my god!! you're defending it! You're actually standing there defending a fucking demon! This is like Stockholm syndrome but worse because you haven't even been kidnapped yet!"

She looks back to see him humming a tune and pulling lent from his robe by the looks of it in the darkness. "About that…"

There was dead silence on the other end. Then:

"What do you mean 'about that'?"

"He's invited me to his place. For tea and cultural exchange."

"Cultural exchange?! What culture? Demon culture? Is that where they teach you the proper etiquette for being eaten alive?!"

"Mikey-"

"No! No, no, no. Let me guess - he was all polite and shit, right? Made some jokes? Maybe showed you a neat demon trick like juggling human skulls?"

"Frozen cherry blossoms, actually."

"Oh, well that changes everything! He makes Ice flowers! Definitely not a murderer! You know what? Why don't you just give him your social security number while you're at it? Maybe co-sign a loan!"

"I'm going, Mikey."

"Of course you are! Because that's what you do! You meet a literal admitted demon who's killed thirty people-"

"Thirty-two," she corrected.

"Thirty-two! Even better! And you think, 'Hmm, seems like someone I should have tea with!' Do you hear yourself right now?"

"He's Upper Moon Two."

"He's what?"

"Upper Moon Two. One of the twelve most powerful demons in existence."

"And you're going to his house!"

"I need the interview, Mikey. When's the last time anyone got to interview an Upper Moon demon?"

"Never! because they're all fucking dead !"

"I'm sending you my location," she said, already typing. "If you don't hear from me in… let's say three hours-"

"Three hours?! What, is that how long it takes to digest?!"

"Just track my phone, okay?"

"Oh sure, I'll track your phone! That'll be super helpful! 'Hey officer, I know exactly which demon stomach my reporter's in!'"

"Goodbye, Mikey."

"Don't you hang up on me! I swear to God, if you die, I'm bringing you back just so I can kill you myself! And another thing-"

She hung up.

The demon looked up from his theatrical nail examination after picking lint. "How'd that go?"

"About as well as expected. He thinks I'm insane."

"Are you?"

She considered this. "Probably. But I've built a career on insane decisions, so why stop now?"

He clapped his hands together with delight. "Excellent! This is going to be so much fun. I never get visitors. Well, visitors who leave, anyway."

"That's still not reassuring."

"I'll work on my hospitality pitch. Now, shall we? The night's still young, and I have some absolutely fascinating scrolls on demon physiology you might enjoy. Plus that tea I mentioned - it really is transcendent."

The Researcher looked at the frozen cherry blossom still sparkling on the bench, then at the demon who could kill her with a breath but was instead practically bouncing with excitement about showing her his scroll collection.

"If I die," she said, picking up the petal and pocketing it, "I'm haunting you."

"That's fair,"

he agreed cheerfully.

"I'd probably deserve it.”

The walk to his residence was mercifully short, though "residence" turned out to be a criminal understatement. The building that emerged from the darkness was less house and more architectural flex, a sprawling traditional mansion that looked like it had been personally blessed by the god of real estate.

"Holy shit," the Researcher breathed, craning her neck to take in the swooping rooflines. "This is… this is yours?"

"For the past century or so, yes."

He led her through gates that probably cost more than her annual salary.

"I've made some renovations, of course. Added electricity, proper plumbing. You'd be amazed how many ancient demons still insist on chamber pots."

Paper lanterns lined the walkways, their warm light finally illuminating her host properly. The Researcher immediately wished they hadn't.

In the forest darkness, she'd registered "tall" and "pale" and "probably dangerous." What she hadn't registered was that Upper Moon Two looked like someone had asked a master sculptor to create the perfect intersection of beautiful and lethal. The casual way he moved spoke of strength that didn't need to advertise itself, and his features had that otherworldly symmetry that made her brain short-circuit slightly.

She dropped her gaze. Great. Not only was she probably going to die, she was going to die while attraction to her murderer. Her therapist would have a field day with this if she'd lived long enough to discuss it.

"Come," he said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to her sudden onset of awkwardness. "Let me introduce you to some of the followers."

"Followers?" She looked up sharply. "Like… a cult?"

"'enthusiastically devoted community.'" he corrected.

He slid open a set of doors to reveal a large hall where roughly two dozen people sat in neat rows, all engaged in what appeared to be… rope making?

"Everyone," he announced, "we have a guest! This is…" He paused. "Actually, I never got your name."

She told him, still staring at the industrious rope-weavers. They looked up briefly, smiled and bowed in perfect unison, then returned to their work with focused intensity.

"What are they doing?" she whispered.

"Rope weaving. It's a sacred practice during this particular lunar phase." He guided her around the workers with practiced ease. "Very important for spiritual reasons."

"What kind of spiritual reasons require this much rope?"

"Oh, you know. Binding ceremonies, prayer knots, occasional demon trapping."

He waved vaguely.

"I'll explain properly another time. The theological intricacies would take hours."

Something about the way two followers exchanged glances made her wonder if "demon trapping" was more literal than he was implying, but before she could question further, he'd led her to a smaller adjoining room with low tables and silk cushions.

"Please, sit,"

he said, gesturing to a cushion that looked more expensive than her couch. "I'll have them bring tea."

A servant appeared as if summoned by the word alone - a young woman who bowed so deeply her forehead nearly touched the floor.

"What would you like?"

he asked the Researcher.

"We have quite an extensive collection."

"Just green tea, please. Simple. Normal. Nothing that requires a ceremony or ancient rituals."

He turned to the servant and rattled off what sounded like a full paragraph in rapid Japanese. The Researcher caught maybe every fifth word, but it sounded suspiciously complex for "green tea."

"What was all that?"

she asked as the servant scurried away.

"Oh, just my usual order. Temperature precisely 85 degrees Celsius, steeped for exactly 90 seconds, three clockwise stirs with a silver spoon that's been blessed under a full moon, served in the blue-glazed cup from the Momoyama period - not the one with the crack, the other one - with exactly two and a half drops of mountain spring water added after steeping."

She stared at him. "That's your 'usual' order?"

"I like things precise."

"Do you even like tea?"

"Oh, it tastes like hot chalk water." He laughed at her expression. "But the ritual is soothing. Plus it gives the servants something to fuss over."

Without warning, he shrugged off his outer robe in one fluid motion, revealing what should be illegal in at least forty-seven prefectures: a black and red turtleneck that looked like it had been painted onto muscles that had absolutely no business existing on someone who claimed to find human food chalky.

The Researcher suddenly found the table's wood grain patterns fascinating. Absolutely riveting. Had wood always had such interesting patterns? She should study them. For science.

"Much better," he sighed, rolling his shoulders in a way that made the fabric stretch appealingly.

"Formal robes are so stuffy. I don't know how humans wore twelve layers of them historically."

"Mmhm," she managed, still addressing her comments to the table.

"Are you alright? You seem tense."

She looked up, caught the full force of him lounging there like a magazine cover that had gained sentience and decided to commit murder as a hobby, and immediately returned to her table examination. "Fine. Great. Just processing the fact that I'm having tea with Upper Moon Two. Normal Thursday night stuff."

"It's Friday, technically."

"Even better. Love a Friday night demon encounter. Really sets the weekend tone." He leaned forward, and she could actually smell him now - something like winter air and pine and danger. "You know, you're handling this remarkably well."

"Yeah, well, I'm trying something new called 'complete emotional dissociation until I can process this later in therapy.'"

His laugh was rich and genuine, and she absolutely did not notice how it made his shoulders move.

"I like you," he declared. "You're interesting."

"Glad my impending breakdown is entertaining."

The servant returned with their tea, setting down her simple cup and saucer carefully like her life was on the line if she didn't. His tea service, by contrast, looked like someone had robbed a museum. The cup alone probably had more history than her entire country.

She watched him go through an elaborate ritual of examining the tea's color, inhaling its aroma, and taking the world's most ceremonial sip of something he'd just admitted tasted like chalk.

"Ironic," she muttered into her own cup.

"Yes," he agreed cheerfully. "But it's interesting. That's what matters." then  winked.

The Researcher took a very long sip of tea and wondered if it was too late to become an accountant instead. He was watching her with those strange eyes, looking far too comfortable for someone who'd just admitted to murder.

"Tell me about this Mikey person,"  he said suddenly.

"He seemed quite… vocal about your safety."

"He's my editor. Former Marine, current pain in my ass."

She set down her cup carefully.

"Thinks he's my guardian angel despite having the protective instincts of a rabid badger."

"How sweet. He cares about you."Douma's smiled.

"It must be nice, having someone worry whether you'll come home."

There was something in his voice - a wistfulness that seemed too genuine to be manipulation. It made her stomach do an uncomfortable flip.

"Do you not have anyone like that?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"Oh, I have followers. Hundreds of them. They worship me, would die for me, but worry?" He laughed softly."No one worries about demons. We're the things people worry about."

The way he said it, with that self-deprecating smile, made him seem suddenly younger. More human. Which was ridiculous because he was literally Upper Moon Two, but her traitorous brain didn't seem to care about logic anymore.

"That sounds lonely," she said.

"Does it?" He tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin warm.  "I hadn't thought about it that way." He shifted closer, just slightly, but enough that she caught that winter-pine scent again. "Actually, there's something I've been meaning to discuss with you. A bit of a work situation."

"Work situation?" She blinked at the subject change. "Demons have work drama?"

"Oh, you have no idea. My boss recently implemented new policies about demon creation. Very progressive, very annoying." He sighed dramatically. "Apparently, the old ways aren't sustainable anymore. Something about adaptation and evolution."

"Your boss… the Demon King?"

"Mm. He's decided we need to create a hybrid race. Demons that can walk in sunlight, blend with humans better." He swirled his untouched tea thoughtfully. "The whole traditional 'turn humans into demons' system is being phased out in favor of… well, breeding programs."

The Researcher nearly choked on her tea. "Breeding programs?"

"I know, terribly clinical term. But essentially, yes. Each Upper Moon has been tasked with finding suitable human partners to create these new hybrids." He set down his cup with a delicate clink. "Which brings me to why I invited you here tonight."

Her blood turned to ice. "What?"

"You're perfect, really. Strong enough to throw holy water at a demon, interesting enough to season yourself for consumption, and that bloodline of yours…" He inhaled deeply.  "Exquisite. The children would be magnificent."

"Children?!" She shot to her feet, knocking over her cushion. "You brought me here to… to…"

"To participate in the breeding program, yes." He looked genuinely puzzled by her reaction. "I thought I was being quite gentlemanly about it. Dinner, tea, conversation. I even showed you my rope-making followers."

"That's not gentlemanly! That's… that's…" She backed toward the door. "That's insane!"

His expression fell like a kicked puppy's. "You don't want to?"

"NO!"

"Oh." He actually looked hurt. "That's disappointing. I thought we were getting along so well. You laughed at my jokes and everything."

"Laughing at jokes doesn't mean I want to have your demon spawn!" She grabbed for the door handle, but her hand felt strangely clumsy. Heavy. "I'm leaving. Right now. Going back to the inn and pretending this never-"

Her legs wobbled. The room tilted slightly, as if someone had moved the floor without telling her.

"Speaking of the tea," Doma said conversationally, not moving from his cushion. "How are you feeling?"

"What?" She gripped the doorframe, her fingers feeling numb and thick. "What did you…"

"Just a mild paralytic. Nothing harmful."  He finally stood, moving toward her.

"I really had hoped you'd agree willingly. The other option seemed so… inelegant."

"You drugged me?" The words came out slurred. Her knees buckled. He caught her before she hit the floor, scooping her up as easily as lifting a pillow.

"Technically, yes. But very carefully! I measured the dose precisely for your body weight. You'll be completely fine in a few hours."

"You… bastard…" Her tongue felt like cotton.

"I am an 'optimistic romantic,' but I suppose bastard works too." He adjusted her in his arms, carrying her deeper into the mansion. "Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything untoward while you're unconscious. That would be terribly rude. We'll wait until you wake up and can participate properly in the discussion."

"Hate… you…"

"That's the paralytic talking. You'll feel differently once we chat about the benefits package. Did I mention hybrid children get immortality? Very good dental too."

The revised chapter was beautifully written, just like every other that came before it, and i am most excited for the next update (as well as the sprinkles of truth you provide)

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 17 (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.

Read Previous: Chapter 16

WARNING: DUBIOUS CONSENT, SMUT INCLUDED IN THIS CHAPTER (i decided to rewrite this to include smut)

Griffith walked in comfortable silence beside the swordswoman to the tent, the soft crackle of distant campfires marking their path through the temporary city of canvas and steel. The question came naturally, practical in the way all of Griffith's considerations were.

"Do you want to bathe first?"

She nodded, already mentally cataloguing what clean clothes she had left in her pack. The mud and blood of the day clung to her like a second skin, and the prospect of washing it away felt almost sacred.

"I'll have water boiled for you when you return," he said.

She gathered her things, a simple tunic, clean smallclothes, her linen towel, and made her way toward the designated bathing area. The sound reached her before she saw them: laughter, bright and genuine, cutting through the night. The comfort women had claimed a section of the stream for themselves, creating a pocket of warmth and voices in the cold evening. She could see the guards Griffith had assigned at respectful distances from the women, warding away the interests of knights under Percivals Guardianship. The swordswoman had resigned herself to silence until she saw Elara raising a wet hand in greeting out of the corner of her eye.

"Look who survived another day!" she called out, her smile visible even in the dim light under the moon and stars.

The swordswoman returned the wave with a small gesture of her own, but she held herself back in the darkness. Their joy was infectious but belonged to them; she was content to just let it wash over her and the universe that decided to humor her that evening. Now she was the one with the swollen cheek adnd a black eye.  When she returned to his tent, she was greeted with a scene unexpectedly comfortable, warm even. Griffith sat on his chair parallel to the cot, his silver hair still damp and darkened to pewter, a towel draped across his shoulders... and, well... his shirt was unbuttoned. Maybe he wanted to cool down, but the reason didn't disband the fact that her eyes settled on the sharp edges of muscle peaking through the gap of his shirt. Cool, distilled water waited for her in a clay pot on the table. Even the light seemed different.

"Was your bath alright?" he asked, looking up from where he'd been testing the temperature of the water with his fingertips.

"It was fine," she replied, settling her pack beside the tent's entrance. "I saw Elara and the others. They seemed content with the guards watching over them."

A genuine smile touched his lips, the kind that reached his eyes and reminded her why men followed him into the hell of war.

"I thought giving them Hawks would work better. These are the same men who've bathed alongside Casca for years. They understand respect. Their loyalty runs to me, not to Percival's sense of entitlement." He gestured to the cot in front of him. "Sit. Let me see that eye properly.”

She settled onto fresh linen and firm cushioning and it quickly reminded her of how exhausted she really felt after gathering kills earlier. When he leaned forward with the damp cloth, she flinched instinctively- her body trying to hide her injuries away from his touch even after he's historically tended to her before. The press of the water was colder than she had imagined, it felt numbing.

"This isn't the first time you've done this," she said with a soft scoff, trying to inject some lightness into the moment. His hand stilled before continuing its gentle work. "Probably won't be the last, but I'm alright with that."

His brows drew together in concentration, as though he was trying so hard to make the tending as painless as possible. The tightness in her chest arrived again, a conflict she'd been avoiding for months. This was her commander, a ruthless planner and victor. But here, in the lamplight, tending to her bruises with so much care, he was dressed as something else, like the countless of times he'd been before around her. The cloth was cold against her swollen skin, and she couldn't bring herself to look away from him, even as the contradiction of it all threatened to unravel something fundamental in her understanding of the world.

"I must look pitiful, half-blind and beaten up like some tavern brawler." She said trying to take a breath of something less intense in its intimacy than this. The cloth paused while still pressed gently against her cheek, and he shook his head.

"You look fearless."

Those words surprised her.

"You stood between armed knights and wounded nobles today. You fought three men at once without hesitation. You're here worrying about your horse instead of your own injuries. That's not pitiful. That's what courage looks like after it's been tested."  And when sapphire met her eyes, she could only withstand looking at his gaze before she stared at her calloused hands and the years of battles she could easily read on them. The cloth resumed its gentle work, dabbing at the purpling scab at her cheek.  "The swelling will go down," he added quietly.

She found herself caught between wanting to turn away from his intensity and being unable to break the connection that seemed to anchor them both in a small pocket of warmth against the cold night. His lips felt like they were inviting her in every word he spoke.

She wanted to kiss him. at least she was honest with herself about that.

His hand stilled against her cheek, the damp cloth forgotten between his fingers. There was a generousity in his stillness; he let her look into what remained soft and inviting. Silence was heavy with possibility and the weight of choices that could change everything. Outside the tent, the camp went about its business, but here in this small circle of light distance between them had become a living thing, charged and fragile. She found herself leaning forward, drawn by something stronger than logic or caution. He pulled the cloth away from her cheek and instead of retreating, he moved closer, closing the gap by half before stopping. He would meet her halfway, but the final choice had to be hers this time. She fumbled with herself before bridging the remaining distance and pressed her lips to his.

Fingers slip to the uninjured side of her face, his thumb tracing a gentle path along her jawline, to which spoke of awareness-of her swollen cheek, bruises that painted half her face. When they finally parted, it was by only a hair. he leaned in again, under the mercy of the impossible softness of his mouth. This time the kiss deepened slightly and their lips dance against eachother. When they parted, the reality of what had just happened crashed over her like cold water. Crickets sang tunes and here she was, spine stiff over his cot, staring at some point past his shoulder, mind racing through implications outside of this pocket of time.

Gentle circles were drawn by the pad of his thumb over her cheek,

"Is everything alright?"  he asked softly.

"Yes," she said quickly, then shook her head. "No- I-" She forced herself to meet his eyes. "This complicates everything."

Her words stood between them like an accusation and a plea rolled into one. Political marriages, military deals, the careful web of alliances he'd spent years constructing all of it suddenly felt fragile.

He was quiet for a moment, his hand still resting against her face. When he spoke, there was something almost amused in his voice, though his expression remained serious.

"How much more complicated can our relationship honestly get?" T he question carried weight beyond its simple words, acknowledging the tangled mess of loyalty, duty, and desire that had been building between them for months.

"What?" The word escaped her like a breath, confusion and something else flickering across her features. "We've kissed each other before,"  he said simply, his forehead coming to rest against hers. Their breath mingled in the small space between them.

"How complicated could things get?"

She blinked, trying to process what he was asking her, what he was offering and taking away all at once.

"I would feel things that shouldn't be felt," she said finally, admission dragged from somewhere deep inside her chest.

"Feel what?"

She couldn't give voice to the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her if she acknowledged them fully. After a moment, he answered for her.

"Whatever you feel is perfectly valid," he said quietly, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns against her cheek.

"I don't fault you for it. Even I cannot truly help myself against it."

They stared into one another before he leaned in again. The kiss carried a heat that the previous ones had only hinted at. She found herself responding without thought, her hands finding the damp fabric of his shirt. When he pulled back, he searched for parts of her she couldn't even see herself,

"Its just... you take so much pain for the world,"

She stilled, not trusting her voice, and his lips found hers again, deeper this time, his hand slid to cradle the back of her head. Against her lips, he whispered,

"it's okay to feel something better than being punched or defending people you despise."

Warmth from his lips pressed against her jaw and the goosebumps colored her skin, enough to make her shiver. It was as if he were trying to replace every harsh blow she'd endured with something softer. His kisses felt like they were cracking the hard shell she covered herself with to taste the rich flesh of her underneath. Will was the sand slipping between her fingers.

"You deserve to feel more than that, don't you?"

A slow, deep heat bloomed low in her belly, a feeling so long suppressed she had almost forgotten its existence. It felt like a dizzying contrast to the cold steel and sharp pain that defined her world. Fighting it felt like fighting against the pull of a warm tide after swimming in a frozen sea for too long.

Her head tilted back of its own accord for him. "Griffith," she breathed.

Lips lingered, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point in her neck before his questing mouth began to move lower. He sought the delicate hollow of her collarbone, tracing a path downward with a reverence that made her skin burn. She swallowed hard against the rising tide of pleasure, a futile attempt to regain some semblance of composure. A low groan escaped from her throat, unbidden and honest, a sound of pure surrender to the solace he offered. His lips were a slow, deliberate fire against her skin, a stark contrast to the cold rain that still clung to the air outside the tent. His hands, which had been so careful and clinical moments before, now moved with a new purpose. One hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her damp hair to cup her head, tilting it to his will. The other hand drifted from her jaw down to the rough-spun fabric of her tunic, his fingertips tracing the line of the laces.

"You're so tired, I can almost taste it."

He murmured, before moving to trace at the laces of her tunic. She felt the pull of the laces loosening, one by one. Each pluck was a question, and her stillness was the answer he sought. The cool night air hit her skin as the fabric parted, but it was immediately replaced by the warmth of his palm as he laid it flat against the space just above her heart. Ad it hammered against his hand, a wild, frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs.

"You’ve earned the right to feel it without the shadow of death hanging over you."

when he shifted to straddle over her, she was quickly finding herself lot. His touch was a cartographer's, exploring her skin with a reverence that was utterly at odds with the man who commanded armies. His calloused fingertips, hardened by the hilt of his sabre, traced the curve of her shoulder, then drifted lower, over the lean muscle of her stomach. She sucked in a sharp breath as he pulled her tunic off. His eyes painted over her pebbling nipples as she found herself breathing harder as if it would bring more of his touch. He splayed his fingers through hers as he sifted to straddle her over the cot.

She shivered while he stretched her arm and gently squeezed at her bicep she didn't realize was aching.

"It's alright,"

A spell hidden in reassurance, meant to soothe, but it only fanned the flames. He gently guided her to roll onto her stomach, the rough blanket of the cot a stark texture against her bare front. The cool air raised goosebumps across her back, but they were instantly chased away by the heat of his palms settling on her shoulders. He began to knead the tight, aching muscles there, his thumbs finding the knots of tension left by the weight of her sword and the stress of the fight. It was a practiced, knowing touch. He knew precisely where the pain resided, where the armor straps dug, where the body stored its fear. But this was different from his previous actions. His touch lingered. It was no longer just clinical; it was exploratory.

"You carry a kingdom's worth of burdens in your shoulders,"

he whispered, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. His hands slid down her back, thumbs pressing along either side of her spine, sending shivers of a new kind of relief through her. It wasn't just the relief of pain, but the relief of being touched, of being tended to with such singular focus. His straddling weight shifted, settling more firmly over her, pressing her into the mattress. She could feel the hard lines of his thighs bracketing hers, a subtle, undeniable pressure that reminded her of his complete control of the situation. His open shirt gaped, and she imagined the smooth, hard plane of his chest just inches above her back. The image was so vivid it made the pit of her stomach clench. Palms moved lower, tracing the dip of her waist before his palms flattened against the small of her back. The motion rocked her hips slightly, a gentle, rhythmic movement that was becoming dangerously addictive. A sound, a half-moan, half-sigh, vibrated in her throat, and she pressed her face into the scratchy wool of the blanket to muffle it. She felt his smile against her hair.

"So why not stop that?"

He was giving her permission. Permission to feel something other than the gritty reality of their lives. His fingers spread wide, gliding over her ribs, his thumbs just grazing the underside of her breasts with each pass. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it sent jolts of lightning straight to her core. She was pliant under his hands, her body arching instinctively into his touch, seeking more of it. He moved lower still, his hands finding the curve of her hips, then the firm muscle of her glutes. He squeezed gently, kneading the flesh with a strength that was both therapeutic and shockingly intimate. The heat that had been blooming in her belly now rushed down between the apex of her thighs. Her smallclothes, the simple linen shorts she’d put on after her bath, suddenly felt oppressively tight. A damp, undeniable heat was spreading through the fabric.. He lowered himself, his chest pressing against her back, his own arousal a hard, insistent pressure against her. He was no longer just massaging her. He was claiming every inch of her with his touch, branding her with this impossible heat. He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive nape of her neck again, and whispered,

"Better?"

His hand slid from her hip, down the back of her thigh, his calloused fingertips a delicious friction against her skin. He worked his way down to her calf, then back up, his path growing bolder, his fingers tracing the inner curve of her thigh. She gasped, her hips bucking as his fingers brushed against the damp fabric of her shorts. He had to have felt it. He had to know.

But he didn't say a word. Just stared down at her, eyes locked on the damp spot blooming through her shorts, the evidence of her arousal plain and humiliating in the dim light. His face remained stoic, but there,a faint pink tinged his cheeks, creeping up from his neck like he'd been caught off guard by his own hunger. She blinked, her mind snagging on it.

He's blushing?

The thought twisted something inside her, a mix of surprise and raw want, making her thighs clench involuntarily. He, the untouchable commander, flushed because of her.

Before she could process it, he descended silently, his silver hair brushing her inner thighs as he pressed his nose right against the soaked cloth of her shorts. The sudden pressure and heat of his breath seeping through, made her squeak in shock, her body jerking up on instinct. Embarrassment flared through her- this was too much, too intimate, her most private ache laid bare under his gaze. She tried to rise, to twist away and hide, but she felt his grip holding her in place on her stomach. He pinned them down behind her back, holding her in place with her arms folded agaisnt her back. What the hell was he doing? Confusion fogged her thoughts, her pulse hammering wild in her ears. Then she felt it- a damp, insistent pressure at her shorts, warm and probing. She craned her neck, glancing back, and the sight was a gut punch... Griffith, on his knees between her legs, his tongue lapping at her folds through the thin fabric. Licking her like he was starving, eyes half hidden under lids but utterly lost and invested all at once. Heat flooded below her belly, her pussy clenching at the reality of it. She twisted against his hold, hips bucking half in protest, half in desperate need, but he only pressed closer, his grip on her wrists tightening, his tongue working harder, more deliberate.

"Griffith," she gasped, his name tumbling out from her lips haphazardly. He ignored her, didn't even look up, just kept going. His tongue searched greedily around the clinging, damp fabric, pressing flat against the outline of her swollen lips, then kneading over her clit in slow, firm strokes. The barrier muted the sensation just enough to drive her insane. It was teasing, not quite enough, making her thighs tremble and her breath falter into ragged gasps. She stilled despite herself, surrendering to a pleasure building in faint, frustrating waves that had her grinding back against his mouth without thinking.

It felt good, wrong and perfect.

Then his fingers, hooked into the waistband of her shorts, a swift, deliberate tug that peeled the fabric away from her most vulnerable curve. A gasp escaped her, stolen by the sudden rush of cool air against her bare sex, slick and shimmering with anticipation. But that chill was a fleeting ghost compared to the white-hot jolt that arced through her as his tongue plunged into her. A cry ripped from her throat, her body arching, coiling, a wild thing writhing against the unforgiving embrace of the wool blanket. Its rough embrace abraded her pebbled nipples, her taut belly, each scratch amplifying the escalating pleasure. His tongue slipped into the valley between her folds, lapping at her entrance, then circling around her pulsing clit.

"Griffith!" The name was a whip-crack, sharp with a feigned indignation that belied the breathless tremor in her voice. The truth was, she was glued to the spot, pinned by the exquisite torment of his mouth, which now devoured her, sucking her clit between his lips with an obscene, wet hunger that filled the small tent.

He remained a statue of stoicism, save for the tell-tale blush that crept higher on his cheekbones. How could he reduce someone to this quivering, desperate creature? The searing heat, the slick, intoxicating slide of his tongue parting her, tasting every secret, every drop of her wetness, sent a relentless throb through her core. Her cunt clenched, begging for more, always more. She knew with a mortifying certainty, that she was leaving a trail of her essence on his chin, that it was probably dripping from his chin. The humiliation only sharpened the ache, her body a traitor, betraying her while it ground itself into his mouth. Her clit throbbed like a second heartbeat, pulsating wildly under the relentless assault of his mouth, each throb sending a sharp sting of pleasure shooting through her core. She could feel it swelling, hypersensitive, every nerve ending screaming as the warmth of his mouth enveloped her again, hot and suffocating in the best way. Then came the flat of his tongue, rolling slow and deliberate against the very tip of her clit, pressing just hard enough to make her vision blur at the edges. It was too much, that direct friction, like fire licking at her most sensitive spot, building an ache she didn't know the end of.

She twisted in his grasp, her hips jerking wildly as her lower half burned with overstimulation, every muscle in her thighs quivering, begging for mercy even as she craved more. But he didn't let up; his hands pressed her down tighter, pinning her wrists harder against the small of her back, forcing her ass up higher, her body splayed open for him. The restraint only amplified it all- the helplessness, the exposure, her cunt clenching desperately around nothing, slick leaking down her thighs. She glanced back over her shoulder, breath hitching, and there were his eyes, locked on hers over the curve of her ass, intense and unblinking under the hitched up fabric of her shorts. It pierced her, making her feel like he was claiming not just her body but every hidden part of her soul.

Calloused fingers curled against her labia, parting her slick folds before slipping inside. Two at once stretched her open with a wet slide that made her groan deep into the wool blanket. His tongue slipped out to flick at her clit in rapid, teasing strokes, syncing with the thrust of his fingers, curling them just to hit that spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. She groaned louder, muffled against the rough fabric, her cunt squeezing down hard around his fingers, convulsing in waves as the orgasm ripped through her. It shattered her thoughts, blanking her mind to everything but the hot, pulsing release. Her walls fluttering wildly, gushing slick over his hand, her whole body coiling and uncoiling in ecstasy that left her trembling, lost in the haze.

When it finally ebbed, he pulled back slowly, a glistening bridge of her slick stretching between his lower lip and her still-throbbing cunt, obscene and intimate. He licked it away with a swipe of his tongue, then reached for the handkerchief on the stand next to the cot, soemthing she was planning to honestly throw out.

Charlotte's.

The one Charlotte gave him.

Embroidered for him, all delicate threads and noble intent. He wiped his chin with it, cleaning off the remnants of the dueler's arousal, and the thought hit her like a twisted thrill.

Charlotte would be humiliated to her core if she saw this. Her precious gift, soiled by the swordswoman's filthy release. A fuck-you to all her simpering affections. It made the swordswoman feel wicked, even as embarrassment burned in her chest. He didn't say a word, just pulled away silently, like he'd snapped out of some trance, his stoic mask slipping back into place as he rose, cheeks still faintly pink. She lay there panting, chest heaving against the cot, slick dripping slow and steady from her spent cunt to pool on the ground beneath her.

She finally hauled herself up from the cot, muscles aching in ways that had nothing to do with the day's battles and everything to do with the raw surrender she'd just given. The wool blanket scratched against her bare skin as she shifted, her tunic still discarded in a heap. But she was focused on griffith already settling into the bedroll on the ground, his back turned to her, the line of his shoulders rigid under the faint lamplight like a wall she'd never breach. No words, no glance back. Silence, as if what had passed between them was already being buried under of the layers of clothing that normality could afford them. She could only stare, her skin still humming from his touch.

Silently, she gathered her tunic, pulling it over her head with hands that tremble, then curled into her own bed, knees drawn up like a shield. What the hell had they just done? He'd lapped at her like a man possessed, fingered her until she shattered, his tongue and hands pulling pleasures from her body she'd long forgotten how to chase... and now? Nothing. Mute as the grave, lying there with his back to her, as if the taste of her on his lips hadn't just changed everything. Or maybe it hadn't for him. The thought twisted into a labrynth of possibilites and anxiety in her mind, leaving her staring at the tent's shadowed ceiling, sleep a distant enemy.

Weeks had passed, each one stretching longer and heavier than the last like they were chains dragging at her ankles. The morning after the sexual encounter, she'd woken to an empty tent, the bedroll neatly rolled away, Griffith already out commanding the Hawks, his voice carrying faintly from the camp's heart as if the night before had been a fever dream. She'd thought it was just for that day, a respectful avoidance, giving her space or himself time to process. But then came the next dawn, and the next, his presence slipping away before she could even stir from exhaustion's grip. Battles melded into one another only for him to be gone when she dragged herself back to the tent for rest, buried in meetings.

Weeks of this silence, this ghosting through shared spaces without a true word exchanged, and it wore on her as rust eating at steel. She was scared. Bone-deep terrified- that he regretted it, that the flush on his cheeks had been shame instead of desire and now he was molding their history back into something safe, something that didn't threaten his grand designs. If only she hadn't been so damn exhausted, her body heavy from the fights and the nights of fractured sleep, she might have woken early enough to catch him, to force the conversation before he vanished into his role. But she hadn't.

Whispers about Doldrey had come upon the camp. And she was sitting cross-legged on a stump outside the tent, the whetstone scraping against her sword's edge, her metal singing a low, grating whine that mirrored the churn in her thoughts. The blade gleamed under the afternoon sun, but her strokes were too frantic, too distracted, as if she could grind away the memories along with the nicks. It was for once that she could sit in her true self instead of hiding herself and acting as though nothing happened before. It was hard to keep going, especially under Judeau's watch. For once, she hated how insightful and studious he could be because she had to constantly filter her words in an exhausting cycle just so he wouldn't catch on that she was royally eaten the fuck out by their commander.

A shadow fell over her work, and she looked up, her hand instinctively tightening on the hilt.It was Laban. Even after months of working under her command within the new structure, he still moved with the quiet watchfulness of a man who missed nothing. He had a couple of wooden practice swords tucked under his arm.

"You'll wear a groove in that blade if you're not careful," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble.

"It needs to be sharp," she bit back.

He didn't take offense. Instead, he simply sat on the grass near the stump, making no move to crowd her. The silence stretched for a moment, only the scrape of her whetstone sifted between them. "Feel like a spar?" he asked, finally.

She stopped her sharpening, looking at him properly. She quirked a brow, a flicker of her old mockery surfacing.

"And get half the beating my father used to give you? I think I'll pass."

A slow smile cracked Laban's stern features. He shrugged, "A difference doesn't make it any lesser."

The dueler stared at him, the whetstone still in her hand. A sigh of pure exasperation at herself, at Griffith, at the whole damned world. The frantic energy inside her needed a release. A clean one. She slammed the whetstone down onto the stump, cracking loudly in the quiet afternoon. Pushing herself to her feet, she looked Laban in the eye.

"Fine," she said, her voice low and steady now. She kicked one of the practice swords toward him with the toe of her boot. "But don't cry to Owen when you can't lift a wine goblet tomorrow.”

Laban caught the practice sword deftly. " Haven't touched a drop of wine since we left the capital, A clear head is worth more than a warm belly on the march." They began to pace, circling each other in the flattened grass, the wooden swords held loosely at their sides. It was a familiar dance, the precursor to a duel.

"So," she said, her eyes tracking his every subtle shift of weight. "Were you always such a hardass, or is that a new development for my benefit?"

"No, your father was worse."

He parried her verbal jab with a truth that made her falter for a step.

"But I expected it. The world got harder, so he got harder with it. That's how men like him survived."

A heavy sigh escaped her, the frustration from the last few weeks bleeding out with it. Her gaze drifted away from Laban, across the bustling camp ground where men sparred, mended armor, and lived their temporary lives. The sight of Griffith's command tent, pristine and white in the distance, made her jaw tighten. She forced her attention back to the man in front of her.

"What was he like... to you?" she asked, her voice softer now, stripped of its sarcasm.

Laban considered the question as he circled.

"An inspiration," he said finally.

"The kind of man you couldn't help but know, even if you tried not to. He had a way about him. Carried himself like a man who knew his own worth, but others’ too." He let out a short, humorless scoff and shook his head with the memory.

"Gods, the women... Used to follow him around like lost lambs. Always swooning." Her brow quirked, "Is that how I came along, then? A dalliance with a swooning maid he was too proud to tell me about?"

Laban's wry smile vanished. He grew quiet, his eyes thoughtful, studying her face as if seeing something new in it. The air, which had been light with the prospect of a friendly bout, suddenly grew heavy with history. "I think you have it backwards."

She froze, the wooden sword feeling heavy and useless in her hand. Her own bitter jab had struck something solid, something she hadn't known was there. "What do you mean, backwards?"

He took a step closer, not as a combatant, but as a confidant. "To most of us, your father seemed like a man who chose his sword rather than anything else. He treated them all with a kind of polite distance."

Laban paused, his gaze drifting for a moment as if summoning a ghost.

"But if I had to guess, it would have been someone quiet. Someone unexpected. A maid, maybe. And if it was... I don't think he was the one who charmed her into his bed. I think he was the one who was charmed.”

She stared at him, the world narrowing to the space between them. The thought was a foreign seed planted in the barren ground of her understanding. Her father, a man she’d painted in her mind as a monolith of strength and stoicism, capable of passion but perhaps not of being captured by it, was suddenly recast as a man ensnared. By her mother. A maid.

Her mouth was dry. She knew, with the certainty of a soldier sensing an ambush, that Laban had more to say. She could see it in the depths of his steady eyes. But the moment hung, fragile and heavy, and then it shattered.

Laban shifted his weight, the movement pulling her from her reverie. The confidant vanished, and the veteran soldier took his place. A wry grin touched his lips again, this time a direct challenge.

"Thinking too much will get you killed," He taunted. And unfortunately he was correct "Or are you going to let an old man have the first strike?"

The sharp change was jarring, but it was also a lifeline. This, she understood. The clash of steel, the dance of combat. It was simpler than the tangled mess of the past.. Heads began to turn. First a few Midland soldiers, then some of the original Hawks, their curiosity piqued. Soon, a loose circle had formed, a mix of banners and loyalties, all united by spectatordom.

A familiar, easy-going voice cut through the murmuring crowd.  "I turn my back for one second," Judeau called out, a wide grin on his face as he pushed his way to the front.

"And you're already trying to rough up the regimental commander. Some things never change." The sight of him, so completely at ease, was grounding. A genuine smile tugged at her lips,

"Just showing him how we Hawks settle disagreements, Judeau," she shot back, falling into a ready stance. "Less talking, more bruises."

With that, she lunged.

"You stood between armed knights and wounded nobles today. You fought three men at once without hesitation. You're here worrying about your horse instead of your own injuries. That's not pitiful. That's what courage looks like after it's been tested."

I'm also very excited for the next updates, I'm quite curious to see how the split between canon and this story will play out

I admire your ability to write characters.

I hope everything is going well with you!!!

(It reminds me a lot of the relationship between Chani and Paul in the Dune book.)

It's very complex. However, it also reveals Griffith in a new light.It shows him as someone who can love someone else.