In this chapter: Guts and Griffith get a little closer to the scene I actually need to be warning for. I swear, next chapter it'll happen, first thing! (Sorry for the super-slow update, also; I've been wibbling over the characterization in future chapters and got stalled because of that, but from now on I'll try to just keep writing even if I end up having to go back and change some things later.)

Guts wanted to think this through, he did. He had been completely prepared to do whatever it took to protect Casca, no matter the personal or physical cost, and he couldn't come up with a single rational reason why this should be different from any other bodily sacrifice; he really needed to either see this through or concoct an escape plan that had some real chance of success, and fast. But as Griffith stood there with his pants half undone (no) and the smug air of a hunter who was absolutely certain he could make his quarry crawl on the ground for him - and in a way (no), Guts had already agreed (no) to do exactly that, hadn't he? (NO!) - the only thing running in circles through his head was frantic, wretched denial. No no no no no…

His body ached with the desire to flee, to fight, to maim, to kill, to do anything to remove the terrific threat of the man standing in front of him and the thing he so clearly wanted, no, expected. But the sight of Casca, still muttering to herself and helpless ten feet over the ground, as if daring him and his egocentric cowardice to do something selfish - go ahead and hurt me some more, those unfocused, glassy eyes seemed to say, see if I even notice after all you two have already done - sent such panic choking through Guts that he found himself quite unable to move.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, muscles tensed to the point of paralysis and breath clamoring in and out in great gasping bursts, but it was clearly too long for King Bastard's liking, because suddenly he was waving a bored hand in Casca's direction and an ugly claw-beast was flying forward and slicing her tunic down the front and her breasts were exposed, heaving and perfect and vulnerable and Guts was springing into action and balling his hand into a fist, ready to fight off all the ugly claw-beasts in the world but she was high above him, too high, and maybe he could use his knife to rappel up the demons he could reach to get to her…? He groped for his blade and felt only hard skin and oh, right, he'd given up all his weapons to Griffith five minutes ago because…because…

Because.

"I admit, I did think you'd get a bit farther than one command before failing, Guts. I assumed you'd make it past at least ten or eleven, on a bad day. You must be very disappointed in yourself. Ah well, nothing for it I suppose. Zodd?"

"Wait, Griff- "

"You can start with her fingers."

"Griffith!"

"Or her arms all at once if you're feeling impatient. I know I haven't let you feed in a few days."

"Stop, Griffith, I'll do it! You bastard, I'll do it. Anything you say. Just, don't…"

"Hmm? Now Guts, I'm not sure what gave you the impression that I'm someone who offers second chances, particularly to weak, worthless humans who are as inessential to me alive as dead, but your inability to meet even the most basic of demands is hardly inspiring me to reconsider my policy."

"If I'm so worthless and inessential why don't you just kill me and be done with it! Or better yet, let us both go! You've displayed your power damn convincingly, we wouldn't get in your way again. But doing this… threatening to hurt her to make me…to make me…why, Griffith? You're known far and wide as such a just ruler, yet this is the second time now that you've…you've...first her, and now me…do you really hate us so much?"

"All I've tried to 'make' you do so far is come over here, and you haven't even been able to manage that. I suppose if you still think Casca's imminent destruction is an idle threat, your monumentally foolish continued disobedience does make some iota of sense."

Hating himself for trying to appeal to a human side he knew better than anyone didn't exist, gritting his teeth so hard he thought he felt something fracture, Guts stormed over to stand in front of Griffith. He comforted himself by ensuring that every drop of the murderous hatred he felt was being broadcast, loud and clear, in his expression as he glared down at the smaller man.

"I'm. here."

"Mmm, I see that."

Guts glared a glare that would make lesser resurrected-demon-gods tremble.

At least Zodd seems to be waiting for our little drama to play out before acting on psycho-boy's orders. That's a good sign. Probably means he IS just playing with me, and all that "no second chances" bullshit is just that. Long as he doesn't get bored, Casca'll be okay for now.

The seconds ticked by.

Zodd looked at Griffith hopefully.

Griffith looked at Guts coolly.

…Guts glared a glare that told stories, stories of exactly what he'd be doing to Griffith, for how much and how long, if he should happen across so much as a goddamn twig.

They panted some more into each other's faces - or, well, Guts panted and Griffith breathed evenly and imperturbably - and then Griffith tilted his head to the side as if he'd just realized something interesting.

Guts had a feeling it would be anything but. He cracked his neck and waited boredly for another villainous monologue.

It didn't take long.

"I misspoke earlier."

Guts grunted.

"I do sometimes give second chances."

Guts scratched his ear.

"Those who appear to have some trace of future usefulness: to them I will occasionally grant pardons, even after they've betrayed an agreement. The illusion of mercy actually works as an excellent incentive, I've found."

Guts yawned.

"Of course, you are not someone to whom this exception would ever apply. The hounds for the annual fox hunt are worth more than you, you must understand."

Guts scratched his other ear. Tell me something I don't know, buddy. Worth something? To Griffith? The bastard had shot that one outta the coliseum a long time ago.

"It occurs to me, however, that I might enjoy seeing you try to prove me wrong in spite of this." Griffith gave a short nod. "Yes, I really do think I'd enjoy seeing you try to prove your worth, Guts."

Guts rolled his eyes. "And why would I bother doing something like that?"

"To earn a second chance, and give Casca the ability to live her next day in freedom."

"But I'll never succeed, because I'm worth nothing, ain't that right?"

Griffith smiled brightly.

"Oh, you understand quite well, I see!"

"So why the fuck do you think I'm gonna-"

"Nonetheless, there's always the chance that your tongue's worth something, even if the rest of you isn't. A possibility worth exploring, wouldn't you say?"

…Guts choked. Why the fuck couldn't Griffith just come out and make demands like any normal powerdrunk psychopath? He was so sick of this headtrip shit. "My tongue."

"Yes, your tongue. If your tongue can demonstrate the remotest sort of practical ability, perhaps I'll reconsider giving up on our negotiations wholesale."

So, so sick of it. Sick of how Griffith had stood here for however long twisting Guts around his finger, for kicks, when what he wanted had been obvious from the very beginning. Sick of the implacably empty expression on that beatific, hated face. Sick of the long-buried images that had been playing on repeat since Griffith first unlaced his pants, terrifying images of a gigantic, intractable body holding him helpless and open, humiliating images of weakness and violation and so, so much pain.

Most of all Guts was sick of the desperation, of the way he'd actually let himself for a second believe that Griffith might be proposing something different, something less unthinkable. He was sick of all of it, so goddamned sick and tense and tired, and maybe because of that and maybe because of the way Griffith's blank expression hinged on smug, suddenly the disgust and despair and devastation were all being submerged beneath a tidal wave of exasperated, body-quaking fury.

"For fuck's sake, Griffith! Are you telling me to suck your cock? Because if you're telling me to suck your cock, you better come out and fucking SAY IT ALREADY, before I assume the talent you want my 'tongue' to 'demonstrate' is the talent of spitting in your smug goddamned face. Get this the FUCK over with and STOP PLAYING WITH ME."

"My, my, so uncouth. Let's put it this way: if you, worthless, petty human that you are, can use your mouth to pleasure me to completion, I'll overlook your earlier infraction. If you can't, the last thing Casca ever sees will be you on your knees in front of me, lapping at my prick like the cur you are."

Suddenly Guts wished he hadn't pushed Griffith to go the direct route after all; any bravado his anger unleashed was drained the instant he thought about Griffith's dick coming anywhere near his face.

At his undoubtedly terrified expression, Griffith laughed quietly, and that was when it hit Guts: the emptiness in his eyes might have not once faltered, but the bastard was definitely enjoying this. The more obvious Guts made it that this was the worst thing Griffith possibly could have demanded, the more satisfaction the asshole would probably get out of the whole experience.

No, Guts had to play it like it didn't bother him. Either Griffith would decide his non-reaction was boring and decide to just torture him after all (he felt pretty pathetic for wishing for torture, but that was something he knew he could stand, and this wasn't), or he'd at least have denied the fucker SOME of his cheap thrills.

Of course, there was the small problem that Guts didn't know what the fuck he was doing, and attempting to think about it made his fucking knees shake, but hey. All he could do was try.

"Alright, Griffith." Guts made sure his grin was pure concentrated I-don't-give-a-fuck. "Let's get this over with. I swear, though, if you think you can get away with double-crossing me…if you give Casca so much as another scrape…you'll be dead before your fucking cronies can flap their wings." It was an empty threat - if Griffith decided to kill both of them before the night was out, there was very little Guts could do about it; he was trying not to think about that, though. Besides, the more empty bravado he conjured up the more normal he felt.

"Double-crossing you? In order for me to do that you'd first have to succeed at your task. Are you really good enough at sucking cock to merit such arrogance, Guts?"

Guts kept his game face on. No way was he gonna let Griffith know just how much every reminder of what he was about to do nauseated him to his core. "That's for me to know and you to find out, ain't it?"

Griffith turned up one corner of his mouth, as if allowing himself to be amused. "Very well then. Hurry up and prove to me your self-confidence is not misplaced, before I assume you're simply trying to stall for time and get tired of waiting."

"Jeez, you sure are impatient, huh? Never thought you'd have this much trouble finding a bedmate, gotta say. I mean, you've got an entire nation at your beck and call; Midland just not turning out the pretty boys like it used to?"

"I know you're not naïve enough to think this is about simple sexual gratification, Guts," oooh, Griffith sounded pissed (in a distant, maybe-I'm-just-imagining-it emotionless demon kind of way)!, "so stop wasting my time. Kneel."

Using the feeling of being ever-so-slightly-victorious to mute the horror sweeping through him anew, Guts knelt.

"Begin."

Guts licked his lips, repressed with gargantuan effort the desire to quiver like a little fucking kid, and crawled forward.

Next time, I stop teasing! And we learn why the heck Griffith, Mr. Unfeeling I'm-so-much-better-than-you-petty-humans Guy, is doing something so...pettily human.

Well, we sort of learn at least. Also, I promise the rest of the cast will get a few chapters all to themselves after that, because I really want to divide the screentime evenly across the board. :)