This is an alternative ending to Griffith and Guts' second duel.

Dedicated to the lovely Tru Mel Meiko Mei Ling: here's the belated birthday gift fic as promised. Please enjoy~!

Warnings: Lemon/man x man smut. Dom!Griffith x Sub!Guts. Please proceed with caution.

Disclaimer: I do not own Berserk. I am just borrowing the characters for Mel's and my perverse amusement.

"Italics"— Speech in flashbacks.

The room was dark, save for the fire that blazed heartily in the hearth. The sound of winded breaths from the two occupants punctuated the sound of scented wood that crackled and spat noisily in the fire. It left an oppressive heat and a pungent fragrance in its wake.

The light of the fire threw elongated shadows along the walls and caressed the semi-reposed forms on the bed. The larger, bulkier man lay sprawled on the bed of brocade, glaring at his slender companion who had him caged with his lean body and willowy limbs. The narrowed blue eyes of the captor watched the larger man warily, his mouth quirked mockingly at the corners.

A feral snarl escaped the trapped man. His lips pulled back to bare sharp teeth, the whiteness contrasted harshly against his tanned skin. The muscular body was fraught with tension, his hands balled into fists and pinned by his side. It took all his self-control not to snap and push the smug man off him.

Griffith observed Guts and his smirk widened. He found the beast beneath him beautiful. There was this untamed viciousness about Guts that made his breath hitch in an aching way. Griffith knew Guts was still smarting from his defeat, his discontent was manifested clearly on his face. It distorted that rugged, yet handsome face into an expression of scathing displeasure.

Unlike their first encounter, this duel had been long and gruelling. Both participants knew what was at stake, both fought valiantly . . . and stubbornly for it. It had been three years since their last duel. Both had improved . . . especially Guts. The man had fought for his freedom with an obstinacy that showed how much he wanted it. It reminded Griffith of another fight Guts fought so hard for. That performance captured Griffith's attention and subsequently prompted a confession from him.

"Because I want you, Guts. I saw your duel with Baszuo. It was splendid. You're an honest soul. The way you fight to me, it's like you want to test if you are really alive. It looks like to me if you purposely push yourself within an inch of your life, only to come back struggling tooth and nail. That's the feeling I get.

You are an interesting one. I want you, Guts . . ."

It was that same "want" that drove Griffith. And because of it, he won. It was a marginal victory—but a victory nevertheless. It revealed how badly he wanted Guts. The desire to have the man tethered to him was strong and, in the end, it prevailed.

Griffith always got what he wanted.

Smirking at Guts, Griffith leaned down and licked the exposed neck, tasting the sweat and tension, and lavishing attention on the pulse that pounded erratically against the throat. Pearly white teeth nipped the beating flesh, tugging gently at the taut skin. The slight tensing of the body beneath was not lost on Griffith and neither was the sharp intake of breath that passed through those chapped lips. Relinquishing the neck, Griffith slid his tongue over the other's stubborn jaw and captured his lips.

As expected, the response was not forthcoming. Guts remained persistently unresponsive; his lips remained sealed.

"Very well, brute force appeals to me . . ."

Griffith's mind echoed the very same words he challenged Guts in their first duel. It also provoked the same reaction since a part of him wanted to punish Guts for defying him—for wanting to abandon him. Yet, a part of him silently applauded the man's desire to better himself—to escape living in another's shadow. He wanted Guts as an equal; he wanted Guts to walk alongside him, but to do that he needed to be free from his consuming presence and influence.

He stands up for his dream . . . against anyone in his way, even if that person is me. Do you really want to escape from my hands that much? Never. Never! I will not allow it!

Unfortunately, Griffith wasn't ready to let go. He may never be ready. How would he fare without his harbinger of death, his instrument of destruction? Guts had effectively replaced Casca as his sword and what magnificent tool it was too. The blade was sharp and merciless, its reach, long and brutal. It may lack Casca's grace and agility, but Guts' sheer power made up for the flaws and shortcomings. It was unrivalled amongst his men.

The man's strength was legendary . . . and it was his to wield.

Mine, mine, MINE . . .

The words, like a mantra, resounded zealously in Griffith's head. Without warning, he reached down, grabbed Guts' groin, and gave it a rough squeeze. The action elicited a gasp from Guts and it allowed Griffith to slide his tongue through the parted lips and caress the recess of that moist cavern. Releasing his hand from the other's lower regions, Griffith cupped Guts' face, stilling the dark head and forcibly deepening the kiss.

At first, there was no response from Guts, but that did not deter Griffith. The latter knew his captain better than any other. His resistance could easily be overcome if he applied a little persistence. Griffith was not blind to the stolen glances Guts gave him when he thought he wasn't looking and he wasn't oblivious to the significance behind those timid and tender smiles either.

So Griffith continued to plunder Guts' mouth, asserting his dominance until he felt the other tongue stroke back—pushing against his in retaliation. He inwardly smirked at the challenge, knowing Guts would not yield to him easily. Stung from his defeat, it didn't surprise Griffith if Guts tried to overpower him in their little tryst. Had it been another time and for another reason, Griffith could have conceded control, after all, it was no skin off his nose to submit when it benefitted him. However, the need to assert his authority—to show who was the master—was his priority. The sooner Guts accepted it, the better it was the both.

To get his point across to Guts, Griffith had to act ruthless. However, much to his delight, it didn't stop Guts from fighting back.

Thick, calloused fingers reached up, wound themselves around the pale hair and pulled hard. A snarl was Griffith's reply when his head pulled away from those swollen lips and was tugged back; his throat exposed for the taking like a submissive wolf waiting for his dominant soon-to-be mate to claim him. Up against Guts' strength, Griffith's own paled in comparison, but he had the element of surprise on his side and he wasn't afraid to use it. Sneaking his hand down to the other's groin, he grabbed the bulge and squeezed it again. A smirk flitted across Griffith's face when a startled gasp escaped Guts' lips and the clothed appendage in his hand hardened.

Murmuring Guts' name, Griffith began his assault on the large man. Lips and teeth connected with salty skin as he travelled from Guts' neck to the muscled torso. Clothes were hastily stripped off and carelessly deposited as Griffith moved downwards. Nips and bites were applied as he claimed every part of that vast body for his own. Griffith knew he wanted Guts the moment he laid eyes on him on the battlefield. There was something about his cocky confidence and reckless abandon that drew him like a moth to a flame.

And a flame Guts was.

Dangerous and destructive, Guts burned him from the inside out . . . consuming him with an intensity he had never experienced before. Why else would he risk saving him when he faced Zodd?

"I am no more to you than any of your soldiers. Why come and save me?"

Truthfully, Griffith never considered the danger he was putting himself into when he rushed in to assist Guts. Had it been someone else, he would have deliberated over the situation more carefully; he would have restrained himself for the lives of others. The leader—the White Hawk—would have acted cautiously, but Griffith hadn't. Throwing caution to the wind, he responded unexpectedly to save one man.

Why?

Was it because there had never been a person who was worthy of that attention until he met Guts?

"No reason in particular. Do I need a reason every time I risk my life for you?"

Griffith had brushed Guts off with a degree of nonchalance but he, too, did not have a suitable answer even for himself . . .

The tugging on his hair pulled Griffith from his musing. Locking his lips with Guts once more, Griffith delivered an ardent kiss that rendered Guts still and breathless. Then, with his eyes locked on the reposed figure, Griffith got off the bed and made his way to a small oak table to retrieve a jar of fragrant oil used to scent the room. Returning to the bed, he carefully placed the jar next to Guts and climbed back on, lying down on his side and facing Guts with his head propped up in the palm of his hand. With his free hand, he traced circles around Guts' nipples before journeying lower, stopping when it encountered the soft, downy hair that trailed to the rigid erection.

Where the previous caresses were gentle, the grip on the thick length was not. It was firm and unyielding. Each stroke was evenly paced and steady as it dragged the skin up and over the hard length. Leaning down, Griffith captured Guts' lips once more, effectively stifling the moan that expelled from the other man's lips. Before long Guts was thrusting into his fist, his legs apart as he pushed himself up.

Eyeing the latter's face, Griffith slowly shifted towards Guts' lower body, his hand unfaltering in its ministrations as he reached into the oil and dipped his free hand into it. He coated three fingers. Moving to Guts' buttocks, he rubbed a finger around the puckered opening and felt the man beneath him stiffen and struggle again. Guts was not about to surrender meekly.

To distract the squirming man, Griffith bent down and engulfed the large cock with his mouth in one fluid motion. To enhance the experience, Griffith sucked on it hard, his hand gripping the stiff shaft and stroking it to the movement of his mouth.

Guts threaded his fingers through Griffith's hair and pushed the pale head down—dictating Griffith's speed and diverting his mind away from the prying fingers.

Griffith gently inserted a finger in the other's entrance. There was a slight jolt of tension from the receiver, but a soft hush, a tightened jaw and faster strokes allayed the other's apprehension. Guts cursed and swore, but he was too lost in the sensation to remonstrate further. Griffith lips curled into a smirk as he smoothly manoeuvred his body between Guts' legs. Continuing with his ministrations, his tongue coiled around the generous appendage and pressed into the throbbing vein that ran along it. Enticed by the friction, Guts' countered the other's moves with his own frantic ones. The distraction allowed Griffith to slide another finger into the opening . . . and then another shortly after, rubbing them into the fleshy walls.

Guts came with a guttural cry, his seed spilling out of him and into Griffith's mouth. It had been a while since Griffith tasted another's essence, his previous experience was not to his liking, but with Guts, it was different. He greedily gulped down what Guts yielded, his hand stilling as Guts continue to plunge into his mouth with his quivering cock as it relinquished the last drop. Releasing the softening member, Griffith pulled back and sat on his haunches, swiping a thumb around his lips to wipe off the excess and then licking it.

All the while, his eyes were fixed on Guts who was enjoying the aftermath of his orgasm and oblivious to Griffith's plans for him.

Withdrawing his fingers, Griffith gave his own neglected cock a few hurried strokes and pressed into the loosened opening before Guts had the chance to react. The sudden and painful intrusion pulled Guts out of his sex-induced euphoria and he voiced his protest whilst trying to push himself away from the adhered body.

The deed was futile.

Griffith held Guts down by the shoulders and dove into that wet heat, sheathing his cock to the hilt. He gave Guts no time to adapt as he pulled out and slammed back in again. Guts had a high tolerance of pain; it wasn't necessary to treat him like a fragile virgin. Hence, a hiss was all Guts' conceded to suggest his discomfort, but that soon dissipated into gritted acceptance when Griffith increased his pace.

Adjusting to the intrusion, Guts grabbed Griffith's waist and was slamming the slender body into his own—the movements mimicking a battering ram smashing against the citadel's wall.

Losing himself to the sweet sensation, Griffith closed his eyes and allowed Guts' action to overwhelm him. The paced had upped to an almost frenzied state that had both men moaning with pleasure. Guts' flaccid cock was hard once more. It silently cried out for attention as it smacked against his stomach with each thrust.

Freeing one hand, Griffith grasped the neglected cock and began stroking it to the flow of their bodies. The scent of the fragrant oil wafted heavily around them . . . permeating the stifling air and mingling with the smell of sweat and sex. Pleasured cries and animalistic grunts fused with the slapping sound of bare flesh. At that moment in time, nothing . . . no one . . . mattered for the two men inside that room. Both were wholly focused on each other . . . and each other alone. Kisses were exchanged, names were called out and the hold they had on one another tightened.

Murmuring Griffith' name, Guts' fingers dug deeper into Griffith's hips, marring the flawless, creamy skin with angry red streaks. At first, Griffith's name was uttered with reverence—as if Guts was worshipping a deity—but it gradually gave way to a sensuous sound that was accentuated with fervour and lust.

Griffith possessively rode the body beneath him, choking out Guts' name as the sensation in his lower body began to coil and tighten. He knew he was approaching his climax and the desire to drag Guts into the same blissful oblivion increased. Reinforcing his grip on Guts' cock, Griffith pumped it furiously. Shallow breaths quickened and laboured pants soon turned into cries of ecstasy.

"Griffith!"

"Guts!"

Both called out to each other simultaneously, the fevered pitch in their voices marked their peak as one expelled his seed in the other's hand, whilst the other spilled it inside his lover.

After licking off his hand, Griffith collapsed on top of Guts, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Guts was faring no better.

Griffith could feel the rapid rise and fall of that hard, muscular body, which indicated Guts was struggling as much as he was. A small smile flitted across his face as he hugged the larger man.

"Mine . . ." he breathed out. It sounded sullen and childish, like a child claiming his favourite plaything.

In response, Guts gave a derisive snort, but his arms—those powerful arms that could slay a hundred foes—reached out and wrapped themselves around the pale, lithe body and caressed it tenderly, the battle-worn fingers grazing against the satin skin.

Sighing into the embrace, Griffith closed his eyes and allowed contentment to wash over him, his thoughts drifting to the man whom he was still buried in.

Guts and him were like the moon and sun, dark and light, they were opposite of each other and yet, they complemented each other so perfectly . . . like a sword and sheath. Guts was destined to be his and vice versa.

"You can make me your soldier or whore, I don't care."

Griffith smiled fondly at the memory. Guts had indeed become his "soldier"—one that was indispensable for the Hawks. However, Guts would never be his "whore."

No . . .

Guts was more to him than a passing fancy and a bed warmer.

No . . . he was irreplaceable. His dreams and Guts were important to him. Where his dreams fuelled his ambition, Guts provided something greater . . .

A large hand carded through his hair, the fingers running through the white silky strands, luring Griffith into a state of blissfulness. Tired from their duel and their lovemaking, Griffith willingly gave in to the lull of sleep; the last thought that resounded in his mind caused his lips to twitch and curl into a soft smile.

Guts was his love . . . He was his redemption.

~The End~

Author's Note: Finally, it's done! Happy belated birthday, my sweet Mel~! This didn't turn out the way I wanted it to, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. For those who stumbled upon this and actually read it, your thoughts are much appreciated.

Thanks for reading.