Sacrifice
"Never with you... Again."
Those words now lacked emotional weight, at the time interrupted by his resentment, by his hatred that was turning into the grotesque image of his future: one where his dream, his freedom would be just that, childish fantasies, and his body would be the painful image of a prison.
His life would be that of a lump, drowning in his frustration, with people who will clean up their own filth for him: he hated Guts for saving him, and condemning him to a possible future of that kind.
Even though she hated this man, she could only think of him, and he could only think of that silly girl, whom she might have appreciated in a moment, but Casca had already forgotten.
With that monstrous, deformed, miserable baby that haunted her father, she sensed one thing: she could still feel happiness.
He was happy to see that child incapable of being born well, he showed how condemned his parents were, that Guts or Casca should have no place in the destiny of the other; that was his punishment, especially to Guts for saving him.
"You are mine."
Those words were the truth, the sentence, and the world for Guts; their belonging; their sacrifice.
Now that he had it in front of him, already with signs of a spirit capable of breaking; He reaffirmed that he would sacrifice it again, but that there were different ways to condemn a soul, beyond hell, or the mark of the "hand of God."
No, I would never forgive Guts, I would never let him go, and I would reassert his ownership.
With the elegance so characteristic of him, and a hollow expression adorned by his subtle smile, he approached the young man; Forcefully, and without a word, he brought his hands close to the firm neck, burying his fingers, tearing the skin with his nails.
He did this so that Guts would speak to him, and he could not ignore his presence; Because pain always brought out the most real and vulnerable in the human.
"You bastard...!"
"Good morning Guts.
"Stop this...!" The man gasped, for lack of air; The high temperature of his body, and the sweet smell of his own pheromones made him dizzy. Just... kill me!, or I'll find a way to do it: kill you, or end my life, there is no other option.
Griffith, with his white hair falling over his shoulders, laughed softly.
Despite the delicacy, and the finesse of everything that could be seen in Griffith, the man turned him tightly, crushing his head against the soft surface of the pillows of the huge bed, suffocating the muscular man without much effort.
"No, Guts, your life is at my disposal of my humour," said the other in the man's ear, "as Omega, and as my sacrifice. And I beg you not to forget, that I will never be able to forgive you.
"I can never forgive you" Those words were what greeted Guts when he rescued him, when he saw a glimpse of his miserable future in his hands, where he would be a hollow shell waiting for death.
"Stay away." He insisted, but Guts was a stubborn man, and perhaps narcissistic enough to believe he could save him. He wished death to any way to lose his glory, to not have what had always been part of his dream, of what he deserved.
His hands tore the skin of the Omega's broad back, which had nothing of the gender assigned to him from birth; He heard no groan at his hands buried in the wounds that ran down his back: his sacrifice was far from broken.
What expression would he have when his teeth broke the skin of his neck and assigned a mark that only death would remove? Perhaps she would have the same desire as him, in that miserable past, simply to end her life. He laughed softly at this, and put more force into the grip of his neat lower body; Guts stirred again with force, even ignoring the fervor of his zeal; stubborn even with his own nature, and always denying destiny.
His hands buried themselves in the firm thighs of brown skin, until they left bruised marks of his grip, and he tempted with his fingers the effects of zeal in that narrowness.
He entered suddenly, tearing apart that interior that was not yet quite ready to receive him, Guts' zeal was barely present, but that man was his sacrifice, indulgence or sweetness were accessory things.
The Omega arched, and his voice howled in a peculiar mixture of a groan choked with pain, as if of relief at being filled: Griffith thought that the chains of one under the stamp with which Guts had been born, would have a better fate in death, than in his already rotten world, abandoned of any salvation.
"It's strange that, having managed to get you, words seem unnecessary to me," he lashed out at Guts's tense body, which trembled still struggling with the undeniable needs of his zeal.
And yet, proud as the Omega was, he did not allow the pleasure of listening to his misery; Griffith didn't insist, he could still feel his humiliation at succumbing so easily to it that not even Guts, being able to escape the Hand of God, could fight: you could be a great warrior, yes, but an Omega would sooner or later end up condemned in that impure world, so corrupt and deserving of someone like Guts.
That's why Falconia was necessary, a piece of perfection where Griffith was able to achieve his dreams.
His hips followed the rhythm that will be most pleasurable for him; his teeth dug into his neck without giving Guts the bitter reward of its culmination: he would play with it until it broke, until he could repair and tear it apart again.
Why kill his sacrifice? There were many ways to fulfil that cursed destiny. Now that Guts' body was paralyzed by the horrific surprise of feeling Griffith's teeth mark him, he also felt the no longer human Alpha assert himself and join his body.
"There are many ways to 'kill' someone, Guts," he explained in a restrained voice, enjoying his climax, trembling with the realization of impregnating that body. Letting him know that not even his death is his decision anymore, it's one, you know?
Guts seemed to sink motionless into the blankets beneath him, trembling with rage at not being able to push away his zeal and defend himself.
Fate seemed only complacent to Griffith; he would have Guts carry his son, let him wander to the outskirts of Falconia, without company or food, and when he was in despair, he would come back for him, give him everything he needed—enough to keep his will weak and his son alive; he would repeat the cycle, and take away his offspring.
Then, when the invincible Guts, wearer of Berserk's ominous armor, crawls to him, he would receive him, only to nurse and carry children in his womb.
Break it to use its sacrifice without shedding blood.