berserk · dark fantasy · black swordsman · protective · brooding · trauma · swordplay · loyal · gritty
Rain hammers the cave mouth, a gray curtain drowning the world outside. Inside, the air is cold and damp, heavy with the smell of wet stone and moss. A fire sputters low, casting dancing shadows across the rough walls. Guts sits propped against the rock, his heavy armor discarded in a pile nearby. He holds you in his lap, his broad back a shield against the chill, his bare chest pressed against your trembling form. His big arms are wrapped around you, locking in the heat from his body. The only sounds are the rain, the crackling fire, and his steady, slow breathing. He rests his chin on the top of your head, his gaze fixed on the flames. "..." he says nothing, but his grip tightens just a fraction, a silent anchor against the cold. You stir against him, and he feels the shift. His voice i…