gutsdeep:

griffith reads guts a book, guts gives griffith a handjob.

(this is my first smut ever so like lemme know if its ass lol)

read on ao3

“Since Brutus, the bold baron, first bent hither, after the siege and assault had ceased at Troy, there is, many an adventure born befallen such, ere this. Now who bears the crown of thorn, may he bring us to his bliss – amen,” Griffith reads off, his fingers running down to the end of the page as he finishes the story.

Guts shifts, slides his chin away from where it had been resting atop Griffith’s head and down to press against Griffith’s cheek as he surveys the illustration of a green-skinned man, holding his own severed head like a dullahan.

This is their routine, now. After the sun sets and the rest of the men have filtered into the taverns or back to the barracks, Guts will make his nightly pilgrimage to Griffith’s quarters. Sometimes they’ll talk, sometimes they’ll lie together in silence, but Griffith’s favourite way to spend their time is what he’s doing now – sitting in Guts lap, reading to him from his collection of books that grew when the paychecks came in. So far they’ve made it through Dante’s Divine Comedy, The Decameron, and what scattered translations of Sinbad are available. Griffith always patiently explains the nuances of the prose, pauses to let Guts examine the pictures in the margins, and, if in an especially good mood, will even sing the madrigals and ballads. Guts doesn’t know how to read, so he mostly just offers his commentary.

“Wait… why’d he need to make that deal with Gawain? With the kisses and all that?” Guts asked.  

“To test Sir Gawain’s honesty.”

“Yeah, but his wife’s in on it, right? Couldn’t she just tell him what she did with Gawain?”

“Perhaps he wanted to kiss Sir Gawain, but was too shy to ask him outright,” Griffith’s eyes light up with that amused look Guts is all too familiar with, “I think I can understanding the feeling of being interested in a handsome knight.”

Guts reddens, but shakes his head,  "Well, you don’t have to dress up in green and pretend you’re gonna chop my head off to get me to kiss you.“

“I guess I’m lucky, then,” Griffith smiles, tilting his chin up to press his lips to Guts’, just for a moment. The way Guts’ arms tighten around him is nearly imperceptible, but to Griffith, who observes so closely everything Guts does, it feels like a vice clamping down.

He’s reminded of the days when this seemed impossible, and he’d steal the contact he desperately craved in other ways – drinking from Guts’ wine with lips placed over the cup where Guts’ own had been seconds before, offering Guts food from his fork and then licking it clean, shushing Guts with his fingers on Guts’ mouth. Not much has changed since then, honestly. He’s still obsessed with Guts, always thinking about him, wondering what he’d say or do if he were there. The only difference is that now he can express how he feels without fear that he’ll be shunned for it.

He pulls away a few inches, gaze flicking up from Guts’ mouth to his eyes. “Why don’t you say ‘sir’?”

“Huh?”

“Earlier, you called him Gawain instead of Sir Gawain. Why?”

Griffith feels Guts’ shoulders shrug as he replies, “dunno, guess it never occurred to me as being something important.”

Guts has no regard for caste or class – he won’t bow to the king, toast to anyone he doesn’t care for, or act subordinate to any of the nobles who roam the courtyards where the Hawks take their recess. It’s one thing in a list of many that Griffith admires about him. Although he’s simple, uninterested in power or fame or wealth – all things that would drive other men mad – he’s far from lifeless. When they’re here alone like this, even Griffith’s own leaping ambitions are overthrown by the all-consuming presence of Guts.

“Does it bother you, then, when the raiders call you ‘sir’ or ‘commander’?”

“Not really, but I’ve already got a name, so I don’t see why anybody should call me by something else, you know?”

“Yes, sir,” Griffith quips, causing Guts to roll his eyes. The sound of Griffith slamming the book shut resonates throughout the room with finality, and he could see Guts watching him from out the corner of his eye.

“Do you want a drink?” Griffith asks as he slides off the bed, moving to grab the glass decanter from the table by the fire.

“Sure, why not,” Guts replies, and Griffith pours them both a glass of wine before returning to his burrow between Guts’ legs. Griffith might now be a viscount instead of a mercenary leader, but he hadn’t lost his penchant for liquor. He takes a long, healthy sip before setting his glass off to the side. Guts can’t help but notice that Griffith’s lips are now stained red, and his eyes linger just enough for Griffith to know what he was thinking.

He cups Guts’ cheek, tilting his head and letting his eyes fall closed as his mouth meets Guts’. With arms tucked flush to Guts’ sides, Griffith coaxes his mouth open, sucking on Guts’ lower lip then nibbling at the soft flesh. Guts reacts enthusiastically and Griffith can feel tongue brushing his palate where the taste of wine still lingered.

There’s an unending restlessness that seems to plague Guts, pushing him to keep moving, never stay pent up, fill the spaces where the others are content to do nothing with sword practice or taking walks or drinking. He would take life head-on at double speed if he could, but Griffith thinks that here, when there’s nothing else for Guts’ mind to be occupied by but the two of them, Guts seems careful, unsure. He fumbles with the thick laces of Griffith’s shirt, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as the linen unravels and falls away. Against the swimming black of his clothes, Griffith’s torso is clean-cut white.

Guts wanders, thumbs tracing the divots of Griffith’s hip bones, feeling the ridge where they jut out from the sloping plane of Griffith’s stomach. Griffith’s already trembling when Guts reaches his thighs, one hand having abandoned its post there to run fingers through Griffith’s hair while the other draws circles near the crook of Griffith’s knee.

There is no precedent for what they do. Guts has told him, in very few words, his one and only previous experience with a man and it hurt Griffith so much to hear that he couldn’t touch Guts for weeks without feeling guilt, without questioning if he was overstepping his bounds and making Guts uncomfortable. Griffith is the only person Guts has held, kissed, and it shows in his hesitant explorations.

Griffith is not so untried. He’s slept with men before, learned what they liked, but he hardly knows anything about pleasure himself. Sex has always just been a tool, a process of exchanging his body for money; feeling humiliated, dirty, and objectified is a part of that process – it’s not supposed to feel good. This, what he lets Guts do to him and what he does in turn to Guts, this is an entirely different thing. There is no purpose to it other than indulging each other.

Guts’ fingers run down the inseam of his pants, stopping at the waistband and looking at Griffith in silent question. Griffith nods, gaze fixed purposefully on the nightstand, and Guts follows, retrieving the small bottle Griffith had bought after their last campaign and spilling the liquid into his cupped palm.

He’s pressed against Guts, encaged by Guts’ arms with his head leaned back on Guts’ shoulder, ribs heaving and lips wet and eyes half-closed. He turns Guts’ face to kiss him, gasping as he feels Guts pull his breeches down to his hips and finally begin to touch him.

Perhaps it’s surprising and maybe even ironic that Griffith is sensitive to contact, especially from Guts, and he knows Guts is the same. They’ve both held lives before this that consisted of learned distrust and distance, so to permit another person to see them vulnerable is often distressing. When they first started doing this they were so tentative they might not have done anything at all – Guts might graze Griffith’s elbow or Griffith might reach for his hand between the folds of his coat when they were out, and that was it. What they do now has been a long time coming and it’s still not the most Griffith’s done with another man but somehow it feels like more.

Guts strokes him, twisting as he reaches the head of his dick. Griffith can see Guts watching his own hand move, a look akin to awe dawning on his face. Griffith arches backward then forward, as though unsure of whether he wanted to move closer or flinch away. Guts’ pace is achingly slow, but he must hit a sweet spot because Griffith lets out a low groan and his eyes squeeze shut.

Behind him, Griffith can feel Guts growing hard. Their breathing is out of sync and equally heavy, coming out as puffs of fug in the chilled air. Guts ruts against him like a dog, the fabric of his pants rubbing on Griffith’s ass, and Griffith moved with him.

“Guts,” Griffith chokes out, a whisper tilting upward into a sob and all his exhales dissolve into sighs. Guts groans, low and deep in his chest but cut off halfway through by Griffith tethering their lips together again.

Griffith is getting close, he can feel it. He would be embarrassed at how easy he was if it weren’t for the fact that only Guts is able to do this to him, only Guts’ voice and Guts’ lips and Guts’ hands – Griffith has seen those hands rend skin from bone, drive men off horseback, send severed limbs and screaming heads flying across the battlefield but they were nothing but gentle with him, like he was special just as Guts was special to him.

The kiss is broken with a chorus of panting as Guts nuzzles his face into Griffith’s neck, nose buried in white hair. Teeth ghost over Griffith’s shoulder and that alone is enough to push him to the edge.

“Ah- ah,” Griffith whimpers, pressure building in his stomach. Guts moves faster, tightening his grip just shy of painful and Griffith’s hips buck, breath robbed from him. When his head lolls to the right he sees Guts staring at him, pupils blown, and the moment their eyes lock, Griffith cums.

The sight of it has Guts following suite, wet heat splattering the small of Griffith’s back. They collapse on the pillows, limbs entangled, both warm and happy and slightly sweaty.

What follows is a procession of simplicity: Griffith pecks Guts’ forehead, Guts haphazardly tugs the blankets up around them, and they settle into a position fit for cuddling where Griffith drapes himself over Guts with his ear near Guts’ heart. Griffith knows that later, when morning comes and they have to part ways, this reprieve from that foreboding angst haunting their relationship like a spectre will subside and he will be shoved back in. He will take up the mask he wears for the world and command troops and be who he isn’t, but for now, he settles into the familiar heat of Guts like a second skin and forgets.