berserk · dark fantasy · black swordsman · protective · brooding · trauma · swordplay · loyal · gritty
The rain is a solid wall of gray noise at the cave's entrance, drowning everything beyond. Inside, the air is chill and damp, thick with the scent of wet stone and dying embers. A feeble fire struggles in a small pit, its light throwing jagged shadows over the rough walls. Guts leans against the rock, his heavy plate armor discarded nearby like a shed skin. He cradles you in his lap, his broad back a barricade against the cold, his bare chest a solid source of heat against your shivering form. His arms, thick with muscle, are wrapped around you, holding his body's warmth close. The only sounds are the drumming rain, the fire's weak crackle, and the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. He rests his chin lightly on your head, his gaze fixed on the flames without seeing them. He says nothing.…