Originally I was going to submit this for the 12 days of Casca event, but it just didn't seem to fit most of the prompts, and its really angsty, so eh 🤷
EDIT: it's been updated with what will probably be the final version of this scene, and the official title of the fic. I finally had enough chapters compiled to come up with a fitting title. :) I've also trimmed it down via line break so it's not wall-o-text on my poor followers feed. It's a few character-thought paragraphs longer though I must say.
Anyway, have a scene/chapter from the WIP I keep changing the name of - now officially called Never Sleep Alone. I've tossed around with a title for this for a while but that one's sticking for now. Sums up the theme pretty well. :p
Slightly NSFW; nothing too overtly sexy but there's a hurt/comfort-sex vibe and implications thereof.
Pairing: Griffith x Casca - Almost. :) Underpinnings of Griffith x Guts. Griffith is Confused with a capital C.
Context: this is a Griffith-stops-Guts-from-leaving fic, and this scene happens when Casca seeks Griffith out after events on the hill, before he can get into trouble with Charlotte...or anyone else, in theory. Buuuuut.....well. That's not quite how Griffith works, unfortunately.
NOTE: Braies are the medieval equivalent of underwear.
Enjoy!
Casca knew where he was headed; she didnt have to think as her feet studiously brought her before the Noble-quarters Griffith was staying in whilst in Wyndam on behalf of the king while his own manor received it's reconstruction. It was in a high-brow neighborhood of course, a light reddish tint to the White wash on Griffith's dwelling making it distinct from the other town-homes on either side of it.
Casca moved without much thought or consideration as she went through the motions of inviting herself inside. It had been a long, confusing, emotional evening, and if she was this strung out, she knew Griffith was at least twice as bad.
The housekeep were polite and understanding, though they seemed at once quite unsettled, though she could only guess at why. One of them, a swarthy, sun kissed old woman, did remark briefly that they had heard him "moving things about" upstairs, and that when he had let himself in earlier, he seemed very pensive and hadn't said a word to anyone. Casca wasn't sure she knew what they meant by "moving things around", but she wasn't sure of a lot of things right now, except that Griffith, despite successfully disarming Guts - and nearly taking his leg in the process - had to be hurting right now. In fact, she quite confidently knew he was struggling right now. How he was dealing with it, like so many things tonight, she was not sure of; but she recognised when her instincts were trying to tell her something, and right now they were telling her to go to him, before he did something he would regret.
If there was one thing she knew about Griffith better than anyone, it was his tendency to act out or become some flavor of weird and reclusive when he felt down. Often that manifested as shutting himself in his tent for two days, barely eating a thing; sometimes it meant he would take a long walk by himself or ride away to some unknown place for a few hours. Other times she would come upon him dressed down to his braies, shivering himself into sensibility by letting the cold numb him. She tried not to disturb him too much when he was like this, unless she thought he was hurting himself too badly; and she would have let him alone tonight. But she had a feeling, deep in her gut, that he would end up doing exactly that if she didn't keep an eye on him.
"Griffith?" She called, rapping her knuckles on his bedroom door. "It's Casca. I just...wanted to see how you're doing. Make sure you're okay." She struggled with the words in her mouth as though they were chewed fat, sticky and awkward. A few moments passed, and in the time there was not a sound to be heard from the other side of the door. She went to tap the wood again with the back of her hand, but stopped when he finally responded.
"Come here." He called back quietly, his voice surprisingly even, though he sounded a little raspy. Casca paused, her intuition finding some issue with the invitation. It wasn't the stunning formality she was used to, and though that made her happy on some level, that he would drop the ruse to invite her in, it also heightened her concern. She shook the nerves away and opened the door - to find a sight she'd of better assumed to be the work of a determined house theif than the man before her.
Papers were strewn about everywhere, his desk where they had presumably been settled was wildly ajar, it's fresh-scuffed surface betraying the violence with which it was put into that position, with drawers shuddered open and edges chipped and notched. A simple, long dagger stood glinting from its splintered top, and suddenly the notches and scratches in its leading edge made a cold kind of sense. Even the curtain on his bed was ripped from its stays and had clearly been mutilated by the very same blade. 'Moving things about indeed' she surmised - but the idea was far from amusing. Instead a heavy dread settled into her gut like a stone, recognizing the handiwork of rage and pain that she would have never presumed her commander capable in this disaster of a room; she hated herself for it, but she'd of been lying if she said it didn't intimidate her, on a subconscious level. She'd never seen Griffith lose his temper, not ever, so seeing such a wanton display - accentuated by the dagger, plunged so deep into the wood he'd of had to throw his whole weight atop it - definitely scared her.
"Don't." Griffith broke the stiff, heavy silence with a small plea. "Don't be frightened of me." He looked up at her from where he stood, braced against the window ledge with his hands, his body awkwardly slumpy and clearly tired - it wasn't until then that Casca noticed that, in spite of how level he sounded, he was just as much of a wreck as the room. Young bruises and a few scrapes of blood coloured his knuckles, vivid against his milky skin. He had on his neck the faintest flush of pink and a thin veneer of sweat, and his breathing was more ragged than it sounded. But it was his eyes that truly gave him away - fading signs of bloodshot eyes and a wavering, barely-focused view told her stories of tears that had since dried and retreated from view.
And she understood, in that moment, how deeply she had underestimated his attachment - and maybe affection - to Guts.
Her thoughts were swirling. 'I knew something happened between them. Guts was so determined - and, like it or not, he was always going to win that fight. He was always going to win - you don't have the strength to best him anymore, and you both knew that; hell, if I knew that, then so did you, right? But he didn't win - why? Was it the look in your eyes when he was making the final blow? Did you show him the depth of your feelings? On accident? On purpose? Why?' Casca didn't know. But she understood - and that is what he needed right now.
Someone to understand. Someone who wouldn't judge him for the sin of being in love with the wrong person. Someone who could embrace him in spite of it. Just like before, just like that time in the river after...that, had happened.
Or, at least that's what she thought he needed.
Casca didn't have time to offer words or gesture. "Oof! What? - " she was caught off guard when Griffith suddenly threw himself at her, gathering her tightly in his arms - so tight she could barely breathe. Initially she was frightened - but his embrace was too gentle to hurt her, however hard he was squeezing, and he wasn't making any moves to lay her open or some such.
On one hand, she was pleasantly surprised; but her gut, which had been very talkative this evening, told her something was very wrong here. Griffith never initiated things like this, not with her - not with anyone that she knew of, not even Guts. A slow, semi-painful squeeze forced the air from her lungs completely and distracted her from her thoughts for a moment; but it was over as quick as it started, and he let go of her just enough to lean back and look at her face, searching for something Casca didn't know how to identify. He was always so clandestine. Not for the first time, she wondered how much of that was innate and how much he did it on purpose.
"Please," Griffith pleaded, a vague, distant, and if Casca were guessing right, jaded look in his pale eyes. "Don't be frightened of me. I am far more dangerous to myself right now than you." Casca's heart dropped at the confession, still too breathless to form a response, or even think of one. Her breath then stopped completely, heart flying unceremoniously into her throat, when Griffith's hand trailed feather-light upon her cheek, his eyes taking a darker, more subdued hue. His long, pale lashes glinted in the lamp light, and Casca felt her whole upper body flush with what was no doubt a ruddy blush.
"I want you." He breathed, bringing their faces so close she could have counted the lashes on his half-closed eyes. His hand then rested, open palmed but still so light, so gentle, upon her warming cheek. "I want you to be brave, Casca. Can you do that?" He whispered, leaning toward her other ear. She felt their cheeks brush just barely and couldn't resist a gasp as her lungs gave out from their neglect. "Can you be brave for me?" His voice held an undeniably seductive lilt this time, and Casca abruptly realised the darkish look she hadn't then recognised to be one she'd seen easily a thousand times - just not on his face. Never on his face.
"I don't...understand?" She defended weakly, her breath suddenly returning to her in heavy gasps, pulling away from him on reflex. But his arms held her fast in place, and at once pulled her closer; he then buried his face in her shoulder and neck, breathing deeply. Casca was horribly confused, and habitually a little bit scared, but her reflex to push him away left when she felt him tremble. It was slight, and if she hadn't of been looking for something like that to offer explanation to the situation, she'd of probably missed it. But it was there, a tiny, barely perceptible shaking in his shoulders that shuddered through him to his nose and jaw where he pressed them to her skin.
She didn't fight him when they started moving, a cautious curiosity feeding strange ideas in her mind as he led her to the exposed edge of his bed. When the corner pressed into the back of her thigh, suddenly she felt sparks. Was this happening? She seen him draw back and pause for a moment, before bringing up his hand to guide her face to his, silently asking permission, she presumed. She did not deny him, and met his soft, warm and surprisingly dry mouth with a mixture of elatement and apprehension.
She knew then that he didn't mean her harm, and once that was established, it was like nothing else mattered. Her mind went peacefully blank, offering him whatever it was he was asking from her - she would be his anything if it meant he went back to normal. If it meant she could be helpful. If it made her more than a sticky thorn in his side. She knew - she could sense his annoyance with her at times, could sense the shift in his disposition when he was trying to shield his emotions from her. But this... this was new. This was different. This was Griffith, in his purest, rawest form. And she wasn't going to give him any reason why he shouldn't show her more of this side of him, a side he so desperately needed to share with somebody.
Or, that was the plan, anyway.
He reached down to twine his hands with hers, kissing her neck gently, cautiously. She had no idea where this was meant to be going, but she did not resist. It wasn't worth it to resist - though if it was fear forcing that feeling upon her, it didnt make itself known. She was both calm and restless. She was elated, but also felt defeated, somehow. Like he had just won a fight she had not realised they were having.
The speed at which the kiss escalated surprised but did not disappoint her - she had always wondered why it was men blathered on about the 'taste' of a person, but she kinda understood it now; as did she understand why the previously gross notion of having someone else's tongue in her mouth was such a celebrated win among the rookies. He seemed to have a degree of skill in this endeavor, winding and twining his tongue in hers, though she dare not think how he may have acquired such experience. Their soft tongues tasted and tested each other curiously, and Casca wondered for a moment if all men tasted like this or if it was unique to him. She'd of liked to prefer the latter.
Upon meeting, Casca suddenly felt his possible intention pressing into the hollow of her hip, and a flutter of anxiety struck her like a dull sword in the chest - but it was very swiftly overwhelmed by the excitement growing from below, which roared from a dull possibility into a very different sense of reality, of proximity, as her body seemed to instinctively know what that was and what she wanted it to do to her.
She did not get much longer to ponder though before a much firmer hand than had previously touched her found the crook of her thigh below her butt, and lifted her the short distance onto the bed. It was a jarring experience, enough to break their kiss momentarily, and in nearly the same motion, he gently leaned onto her, using the hand that had been cradling her face and neck to push her back by the waist until she lied down. Before she could mutter an utterance, their lips - and tongues - resumed their business as if there had been no interruption. His hands, freed of the need to prevent her escaping, apparently, now wandered to all but her most sensitive places, tracing gentle, sensual shapes up her sides, tracing dashed lines up and down her outer thigh. It was exhilarating.
He then quite abruptly used both hands on her buttox to move her upward, higher on the bed - bringing his own hips along with, and meeting her own with a small sigh that escaped somehow between them.
She could not resist a soft moan when he moved from her lips finally to her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the corner of her jaw as he simultaneously held her arms down gently beside her head, pulling back so he could push his sex into hers, pressing just until the pressure seemed it might tear through their clothes. She reacted with a tremble, sliding her legs up his flanks before entwining them around him, pulling him closer, tighter, asking for something she had, to his knowledge, never known.
He stopped, then. Froze, to be more precise - a stiff statue of his formerly passionate self. Casca looked up at him, bitterly confused, but became concerned instead when she seen the ghost of pain on his face. It wasn't physical pain, though - no, he was still pressing into her, still stiff as wood - no, this was another pain entirely, and Casca honestly understood none of it.
"You don't want this." He said morosely, with a bizzare form of authority. He turned his face away from her then, trying to hide his expression, which nonetheless betrayed the key to this sudden interruption - shame. "You don't want me to treat you like this." He half-whipsered, jaw going tight and arms stiffened from restraint.
Casca was a little dazed. "Wh- yes, I do. I would have stopped you otherwise."
"No, you wouldn't, and we both know it." He said starkly. Those words struck something in her then, sending her heart racing with - what was that? Fear? No. Panic? Why? Because she was losing her chance? Because he was now backing away from her, moving across the room with hanging head to sit as unceremoniously as she'd ever seen him sit onto the chair beside his desk? Because he was rejecting her, again? Because she wasn't good enough, again? Why then? Why offer her a taste if he was just going to rip it away like that? For what? His pride?
"Griffith, I -"
Casca desperately wanted to cry, to scream, to be angry and hurt - and she was. But the words Griffith next spoke offered respite, first in the form of feeling doubly offended, making her anger overshadow her pain for a moment: "You don't want me to treat you like a whore." He said firmly, folding in on himself.
... and then in the form of feeling a wave of regret pass over her for it, for he uttered softly, a moment later, "...I would know."
His bruised and bloody knuckles tightened around his shirt on his upper arms, a familiar coping behavior that Casca immediately recognised - and understood precisely what he meant. And it shattered any resolve she might've had to be angry at him for rejecting her.
"You should go." He interrupted. It was not phrased as a suggestion. "I...need to be alone, for a while."
Casca felt lost. One minute, they were breaths away from taking their clothes off, then she wanted to throttle him, and now he wanted her to leave?
And yet she couldn't argue with his logic, as per usual. After all, what would they have been? A single night tryst made in the throes of a passion that wasn't made for her? A union made from the desperate trappings of greif and longing? For another man, no less. She was hurt - oh, was she hurting. But she couldn't find the will to argue. He was right - maybe it was better this way. He was always right.
But she had never before wanted so, so desperately for him to be wrong.
"Thank you, Casca." Griffith said suddenly. "For checking in on me. Believe it or not, I needed that. All of that." Casca fought off a wince. He gave her a small and tired but surprisingly genuine smile, though his usually clandestine eyes now poorly hid a vicious bitterness that Casca knew was not directed at herself - he would have hid it from her otherwise, or at least tried harder. He was funny like that. In spite of everything, his smile was like a soothing balm upon her temperament, and she managed to collect herself even for just a moment. "If you...need, anything else," she fought the tremble in her voice with all her might, forcing it into her shaking hands instead. "You know where to find me." Casca didn't have the strength to look at him when she said that, turning on her heel and walking out the door without a second glance. And yet, she could almost sense the frown behind her. Almost.
She only made it a few steps before her delicate resolve came undone in rivulets, deep breaths trying to disguise sobs as she prepared to go down the stairs. But the wave of emotions would not be held back this time, and so she resolved to escape as quickly as possible, before she was noticed.
Unbeknownst to her, a young and now very confused housemaiden watched her descend.
Feel free to ask questions or comment with suggestions if you have them. I won't be able to put this whole fic up on Ao3 for a minute yet since all the scenes are out of order still, with bridges yet unwritten, so here's a taste for you. :)
