LocalWoman

Whether it be by them pissing you off enough and goading you into doing it,

“Come on, do it pussy.” “If you’re sick of me then do something about it. Bet you won’t though.” “You keep glaring and catching an attitude like that’ll do anything. Think I’m intimidated by you? Give me a reason why I should be.”

Or them being just the most down bad, borderline pathetic simp in public

“Pleaseeeeeee, baby pleaseeeeee.”

“Come on, it’d be so hot. Also, I want that couple who’s staring to see. Why? It’ll teach em to stop being nosy.” “Baby, I’m so deadass, either spit in my mouth right now or I’m causing a scene.”

The silence settles, heavy both in your tongue and in the air. you don't dare to speak, not even when the soft hands of this strange man cup your face.

it's embarrassing, shameful, and every single word that could possibly convey the humiliation lodged in your throat, yet it doesn't feel enough no. you don't give any of them the pleasure to see your tears, not when your clothes are soiled with dirt and you feel the burning hum of a bloody lip.

but his eyes, oh his eyes.

He smiles, even when you snarl at him, baring your teeth like a caged animal ready to snap at the closest hand foolish enough to try their luck. And maybe you want it so, to prove that you're not helpless. that you can stand on your own, that this defeat was nothing but a stroke of luck.

but the opportunity never comes, and he kneels all the same, savouring the feeling of your skin under his fingers.

The rage simmers in your stomach, never quite smothered but lulled into a strangled calm, a feeling you refuse to call your own, even as his eyes seize you in a way you've never felt before.

and the fact that you can't see what this man is, scares you even more.

the words fall from his lips, but you barely register them. not when they mean the end of what you prize most, not when they mean that he'll be at the other end of the chain, holding you by a leash you'll never bite out of his hand.

not until he wishes it so.

"From now on, you belong to me."

The sun's last breaths painted the sky, bleeding on the horizon.

It was not the first, and quietly, Griffith begged it wouldn't be the last of these moments, few as they were, where he could lay in your arms and forget about everything.

Chirping and slurred by the alcohol, the voices of his men were a distant reminder of his duties, but even he was to be allowed a moment of respite, wasn't he?

Your fingers softly threaded through his hair. Carefully. Skillfully. With the same patience of a weaver of old. But you were no wrinkled old hag with gnarled fingers, yet the miracles you both performed were about the same.

"I love you." You had breathed into the soft breeze as you gently twisted his hair into a loose braid. Words are taken away by the wind, sheepishly hoping to have gone unnoticed.

"And I adore you." He had replied effortlessly. But although there was no doubt in his words, the sheer ardor in them made you tremble. A hidden ferocity in them, one that made you think of a hidden knife, or a well-placed glove in a stranger's table.

As Griffith's eyes opened, head comfortably nestled in your lap, the fire in his eyes tied a rueful knot in your throat.

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

Glancing beyond the rim of your cup, Griffith answered in kind. Eyes twinkling, hovering above the hardcover of a leather-bound tome. A mischievous smile pulled at his lips.

"Anything I might do for you?" His fingers lightly twitched as he watched you cross the short distance between your bodies. The eagerness in his voice was hardly conceived.

"I don't know. Is there?" Reveling in your touch, his eyelashes fluttered as the soft pads of your fingers danced across his lips.

"Such a soft mouth you have, beloved." Ever so gently, yet not without hidden anguish as one does when forced to held an antique you never asked to see, your fingers treaded along the plump flesh to the thin edge at the corner of his lip. "Even prettier than those the nobles like to paint red so much.

He shrugged, but you could feel the creeping excitement under his skin.

Guts

Soft, ever so frail threads of light to filter through his tent's flap, Guts felt his brow scrunch involuntarily. Quietly cursing at the entire world as his first thought in the morning, your soft moan accompanied by a pressure on the side of his cot brought his eyes to a weary blink.

He could smell the fragrant herbal tea you made for yourself every morning, blurs of colors and shapes becoming sharper with each try, one blink turned to several, and a rough thumb tried to wipe away the sleep.

"Hm." Would be as much as you'd get from him, perhaps accompanied by a soft kiss to your crown if you gave him a couple of minutes, yet he seemed much more content in tangling your legs together, resting a calloused hand by the nape of your neck to push you closer to his chest.

And, maybe call it disappointment, but the fact that he could not feel your bare tits pressed against his, as he had quietly wished for, even in his muddled mind, was enough to cast a questioning glance downwards.

You must've had gotten up while he slumbered away to prepare that bitter brew you so favoured so much, yet Guts did not expect to find you wearing his shirt as an oversized dress of sorts.

The rough fabric barely reached past the little bit of flesh he had ardently kissed last night, yet as he watched your hands sleepily reach out to his chest, he quietly discarded the thought. Even as it sent a pang of desire down his navel, broad arms closed around your ribcage.

How could such a frail thing hold such a heart?

Warmth blossoming past his flesh, a soft kiss was left on your nose.

"Morning..."

Griffith

Refreshing.

It always felt so...clean, so crisp, to wake by your side.

Of course, there was not even a flicker of doubt that the first thing he felt as soon as his body regained consciousness, even through the drowsiness of sleep, was an overwhelming love for you. For the warmth of your body, the sound of your breaths, the smell of your scented soap.

For every battle fought, every debate won, every nobleman he swayed, none of the satisfaction they brought after the rush could even hold a candle in comparison to this.

Pressing his cheek against the crown of your head, discreetly relishing in the scent with a soft sniff, a soft peck was placed among your hair as he peered through white lashes.

Flesh against flesh, rosebud lips curled up into a feline smile as he heard you sigh. The soft gurgle of boiling water reached his ears, and as he peered over his shoulder, he was met with a scene unlike the one last night.

Where he expected to find books strewn about, and a toppled chair, one he distinctly remembered knocking after bending you over his desk, Griffith was mildly disillusioned to find everything in its place, neatly arranged as you liked things to be.

His disappointment only became replaced with a tenderness after finding you dressed in his tunic.

White and soft, of long-open sleeves to curl around your skin, your breaths became softer as you began to fall asleep once more, lulled away by the warmth of his body and the cozy blanket thrown over your bodies.

Even in your sleep, he felt his body fill with utter delectation as you smiled.

Ever so innocently. As if you didn't make his flesh burn with just one glance.

As if he wouldn't slit his own throat just to hear your laugh.

this ain't edited so it's a bit messy my bad

---------------------------

For a single moment, you feel silly for being nervous.

There are thousands of kisses fading in your skin, but a thousand more to replace them, and Griffith is ever so patient, ever so good to you that it feels...unreal.

Perhaps you were the fool, for thinking there was no mercy in this world.

Pressing another kiss behind your ears, his soft lips, pretty as camellia petals begin to slide along the soft curve of your neck, drawing a soft sigh from your lips. His fingers, tapping at what marks splashed your skin with a playful air, begin to slide below your navel, making your skin rise.

An amused chuckle leaves him upon seeing your goosebumps, a chuckle that turns into a soft moan as he presses his lips against yours. Nibbling at your lips, memorizing the shape of your cupid's bow with the passivity of an artist, azure eyes gaze as his fingers slide between your folds. He lives and dies for watching you melt beneath him, for every gasp of air that leaves you, he takes.

Rubbing circles into the swollen little nub between your legs, his tongue laps at your mouth, quietly trying to pry it open. When you cattily refuse, he gives your clit a sharp pinch, sending a flash of heat across your stomach.

He looks so insufferably smug as he slides his tongue across yours.

Griffith doesn't care if it's messy, no--digging his thumb a bit harder as the circles become a brisk pace, he drinks up your moans without unlatching his mouth from yours-- no matter how you throw your head back or arch your spine.

Only when a wetness begins to pool beneath your ass does he slide a finger inside.

It's an odd sensation, he's curious yet gentle--he's not trying to do this for his own benefit, rather yours. It's you the one he wants to see cry, eye-crossed and a drooling sight.

And oh, he sighs for another thousand times--how he loves you.

He gives you little time to mold into his fingers, for he shoves another, and yet another when you're barely getting used to it, never fully allowing it to become dull before he's sending you over the brink, and--!

Clutching onto his shoulder, you see no more.

"Griffith!"

It's bright, yet dark, a pressure beneath your stomach that breaks loose, as a river crashes through the dam. There's a soft moan that unveils into an euphoric, soft laugh, and you don't know who it belongs to. But you don't really care, not when it feels so good.

There's a pressure, one that makes you open your scrunched eyes as you shakily breathe through the ecstasy, before you find your lover settled between your legs.

It's going to be alright, you tell yourself. He loves me. He's not going to hurt me.

Yet he never wanted to wreck anything more.

Giving a last playful peck to your nipple, one he had bitten and suckled raw, your knees are pressed against your chest as you find yourself staring at him, doe-eyed and full of tears. And fuck--did you even know how you made him feel?

Gritting your teeth, feeling the ridge of his head push past your tight entrance forces a sharp gasp that had you clutching at the sheets. He was quick to smother you in praise and sweet nothings, a mantra of "you're so good to me." falling deaf to your ears.

A sting shakes your body as your cunt begins to stretch, his cock fitting snugly into your insides. Inches begin to disappear as he slides into you at a maddeningly slow pace, thumb still drawing softer, gentler circles against your clit, as you helplessly whimper and mewl his name. He rests his body upon his hands, placed at either side of your head, almost as if to get a better look at you.

He begins to slide out, and then in, and out. It's a rocking motion, as one would find themselves on an unanchored boat at the mercy of waves and winds. He shifts into his knees and grabs hold of yours, pressing them flat against your shoulders as his thrusts become sharper, meaner, and soft gasps begin to spill from his lips.

To think you'd see him like this. So flawless. So elegant and refined, turned into a rutting mess.

His hips slap against the plush of your ass, echoing in the warmth of his chambers. It's unfair, you cry. Unfair that he spares such loving looks while ravaging your cunt.

You feel whole, full, thousands of spark to dance along your skin. The stinging ache begins to fade as your body molds itself to him, bucking your hips as the crackling grasp of another orgasm that begins to build.

He takes his hands in yours, and oh. Oh, how could anyone look away from his eyes?

There's no need for words, not when he drags his tongue along yours in an attempt to remember every bump and crevice of your mouth. Even as he separates, tilting your chin so you're forced to gaze at him as he barrels into you, he looks downright divine.

I love you--I love you so much, the words flutter out of his mouth, but they'd never be feather-light.

His thrusts grow desperate, faster and messier, skin against skin squelching lewdly as your juices pool beneath your flesh, but he doesn't mind, no, not when your face rivals the countenance of angels hung upon palace walls.

He thrusts away with all his might, forgetting for a moment that this is your first time. At a time later, he swears to cover you in soft pecks and bathe you in lukewarm water where he can pamper you, it's what you deserve, the least he can do for half of his heart, his faithful lover.

Feeling the muscles of his thighs tense when he lets go of your knees, he wraps his arms under your spine and presses you against his chest, lifting you off the bed yet thrusting away, he can feel his heart upon yours and he relishes--it's beautiful.

Slotting your mouth against his own, he drinks your last cry.

Little finch, don't stray from the path--

He supposed he might've felt...guilty even, in another life.

In a life where he cared for her, where he could've loved her.

But unfortunately--his eyes broke from the window, to settle in your sleeping sighs. With pale, rose-tipped fingers he brushed away wayward strands of hair, but it felt as ghastly as he was. It held not your warmth, not the warmth that once left hushed kisses in his cheek, or the warmth of your breath on his eyelids.

He loved you, even in this husk, in this shell of flesh and glass that held only aspirations. In a vessel made for him, the only one that would help him reach where he had once fallen short.

He loved you, even if you feared him. Even if you found his cold, ageless beauty, vile where as other only saw good. Even if his voice, made to be followed, only had you squirming and in tears.

Even if you'd never have him.

Even if he was to suffer by your hand.

Griffith: *faints*

Reader: I am ambitious and won't let anyone, even those who i hold dear hinder me.

Of course you had survived.

You were not of the pitiful worms that writhed in worship at his wake, who desperately reached out to grasp his shadow in adoration. No, you were much more.

And much like the first time you met, his undoing.

There was no one like you, and even now, void of all feelings and morals as he was now, the King of Darkness sought to rise above all, yet still felt something swell inside of him.

After all, you always were ahead of him.

Guts had fallen to the floor, the intensity of his mark's pain dragged him down to unconsciousness, as the little elf tried his best to wake him up.

Not too far away, stood the Count.

Or what little was left of him.

Your mark burned, that much was true, but you hadn't been bold enough to charge at your old lover much like Guts had, now paying the price.

You could only stay in place as the strange, surreal world shaped and shifted, only to bring the two of you closer.

A clawed hand slowly arose to gingerly touch the side of your face, as his eyes stared down at you. Burning, yet cold, tearing down at your throat, soft silk--

" You..."

"You never were one to follow destiny's path. Were you, my dove?" The sound of his voice, almost brought you to tears.

Even after everything he had done, his voice was still the same.

A lone tear slid into the half moon of his claw, as the burn of your mark sent a flare of pain down your (arm/leg/neck).

Retrieving his hand, Femto watched as you fell onto your knees with a pained cry. Those unmoving, unblinking red eyes that glared down upon you, filled with something that your pain would not let you describe.

It was only then that Guts had managed to regain his consciousness, that it became your turn to fall into the world of dreams.

you debauched wench

------

“Heart beating as a hummingbird’s wings”, no matter how much the nobles enjoyed such a pompous phrase, and how violent your distaste for their equally pompous prose was, you wouldn’t have found a better example of your current state.

Nerves about to bloom on your skin, and a heart about to jump from your mouth, you spat every curse you knew at the leather ceiling of your shelter, while the thundering voice of a storm wailed outside and clawed rain against what felt like the fragile skin of your tent.

When a warm hand settled against your shoulder, a terrified yelp escaped you.

“Shit!” The low, barely held giggle of your lover did not dissuade the anger that began to brew in your lips. “Griffith, stop laughing, it’s not funny!”

The man’s pale arms encircled your trembling body and pulled you against his chest, where you could still feel the embers of laughter still warm.

“I see. You have no trouble throwing yourself at the enemy, yet a thunderstorm is able to frighten my best captain? Just like that?” His soft lips brushed against the shell of your ear, and the warmth from his body slowly began to soothe the violent tremors that came with each clap of thunder.

You wonder what drew him to you in the first place. It is not the first time the thought crosses your mind, and you doubt it'd be the last--but perhaps it's the strangeness of the situation, or rather, the oxymoron it presents, one made tangible, visible.

An errant knight shrouded in mystery, and a beautiful, if deceitful prince that had a finger in every pie. Not that anyone would be wiser to his endeavours-- secrecy was made for and by himself, but the idea makes you snort and it makes him look.

He smiles, genuine and bright. Even when you're nothing short of monstrous by his side. He walks with you as he would with other royals, wind in his step and velvet draped upon his shoulders--and he doesn't mind when you track blood inside the palace grounds, or if your armour scrapes against the marble and it makes the nobles wince.

They fear you, and that's good enough for him. But you don’t. You’re not afraid of him, but you’re not allowed to leave either.

"What amuses you?" he asks, at last.

You don't answer right away, but that's alright. You've discovered he still understands you.

His fingers, clean and without blemish, begin to trace the sharp edges and carvings on your gauntlet, a twisted, clawed thing. It scrapes something close to sacrilegious to have him near you, to the point where you try to shift away from his touch. His hand closes around your wrist.

"Hm?" He hums when you stretch the silence too far. The tune in his voice becomes acrid, as it does when he's displeased, but you're not afraid of it. Your absence would only cause him grief, and that is common knowledge. His grip softens and becomes playful. He tries to leave you bare again, just as him.

A lark sings, hidden in the bush. Sunlight barely makes it beyond the curtains.

- “A force to be reckoned with”, were the words most of your soldiers would oft use to describe you. An unstoppable force met with an immovable object, when it came with your relationship with one of the Captains. And, honestly? There were no better words.

- A stern woman with eyes as cold as the glaciers from the Ivory Coast, a ruthless voice to command and an even character to match, there was no prayer that didn’t know your name when the Hawks flew into battle. So, upon this encounter, confusion was understandable, right?

- No one expected to find you in a most romantic embrace with the captain, huddled away from the bonfires, and most eyes, lovingly peppering his face in soft kisses, cut short as soon as the loud whistles cut through the silence. Turning into scared screams as soon as you bolted towards them, stick in hand, they sure learned a lesson that night.

- As for Guts? Well, he doesn’t really mind. Sure, it’s fun to poke fun at you from time to time, whispered sarcasm brushing your ear when you think no one is looking. He adores you all the same, and how could he not? You’re both the same.

- He especially loves it when all sternness drops from your shoulders after battle, like a cape, and spend the rest of the night in his quarters, pampering him with the gentlest of touches and rubs. 

Yet, he’ll never admit it.

- “The Iron Lady”, was the title they’d baptised you as soon as you became known within the ranks. By whom? Why, the nobles of course! And Griffith adores it so.

- For the world to think of his beloved as a merciless, gelid war captain with a viperine tongue that’d bring the King himself to his knees, is worth of all the gold in Midland’s coffins. But, how untrue can it be, when he has you by his side, gently running your fingers through his hair with the gentleness of a harpist?

- Adoring every bit of you, the duality of your person; from a hardened warrior to a caring lover, he’s willing to explore every facet you have to offer him, every nook and cranny of your personality, a book he’s yearning to run his fingers through, drinking in every part of you.

- And oh, the looks of his underlings when you’re finished barking orders at them, only to turn on your heel and plant a big kiss on his cheek before battle, simply incredible!

- Composed, hardened, experienced, a cold hearted bitch, although Judeau has heard many things come from his comrades, mostly whispered in admiration than not, he’s not easy to sway from your side, quick to shut down those less than happy with your disposition. 

- You’re a warrior, in every sense of the word! And Judeau respects that. However, he also respects how easy it is for you to change your demeanour whenever he’s in sight, as quick as snuffing out a candlelight, your cold visage thaws into a lovesick grin as soon as the two of your are together, and he’s been the target of many friendly taunts by his comrades.