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“Griffith,” Guts snarls, rattling around in his chains as both the sweat and blood course down the side of his neck. The brand on his neck is screaming at him, and he can feel warmth pooling near his collarbone.
Those purple lips curl into a mocking smile as Femto leans in, running a nail along the Swordsman’s chin and smearing the blood on his cheek. “But you look so pretty when you’re chained up like that,” he purrs as his nails bite into Guts’s face, causing him to groan once again.
“Griffith, you’re killing me here,” Guts said, yanking at his restraints for the hundredth time that night. “Get the fucking key.”
“And why should I?” Femto replies, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Because I’m fucking drained, I can’t see out of my right eye, I swear I’m gonna lose my left arm, and this stupid fucking brand is gonna be the death of me,” Guts says, glaring at the helmet illuminated by the red glow of the room.
“I said I would choose the place where you ultimately would die,” Femto says, nails dragging along the numerous cuts on Guts’s chest in a way that makes him shudder despite himself.
“Behelit,” Guts grits out.
Immediately, Griffith pulls off the mask and drops it onto the bed next to Guts. He flips on the fairy lights before snatching the key off the nightstand and making quick work of undoing all of Guts's restraints. He starts off with the bicep strap and then coaxes Guts to lift his shoulders so he can reach the binder twisting his left arm behind his back.
Guts yanks off the eyepatch and picks up the little sword on the pillow, swiping the blood off the Dragonslayer as Griffith starts fussing over his cuts.
“Remind me why I always pick this one for blood play,” he grunts, wincing slightly when Griffith dabs at the brand. “Ouch.”
“You’re a bit of a masochist,” Griffith says, pressing his lips to the bandage and smiling up adoringly at Guts. “And you enjoy being tortured as ‘The Black Swordsman’ too much for your own good.”
“Yeah, well, you’re also having too much fun with this ‘Femto’ shit too,” Guts says, although he’s unable to maintain the scowl on his face as Griffith’s lips meet his.
He slides a hand into those white curls that are somehow still mostly perfect after being up in that helmet. The blood is still stuck to his hair and right eye, but he can’t find it in him to care.
Griffith lets out a soft noise of contentment as Guts pulls him into his lap, taking advantage of the moment and slipping his tongue past those pouty purple lips.
It’s only when Griffith’s fingers accidentally brush his left arm that he lets out a pained grunt that causes the other man to pull back and rub soothing circles on the skin.
“I’m starting to think you’ve got a fucking pirate kink and you don’t like my arm,” Guts grumbles as Griffith pulls back, blood matting those perfectly maintained bangs and purple lipstick smeared across his cheek.
Griffith laughs quietly, dabbing gently at Guts’s eye. “You were the one who insisted on trying out your new gift the moment you unwrapped it. How many times have I told you to use ‘God Hand’ if you need me to pause?”
“Tch, whatever. And too fuckin’ many,” Guts sighs as he pushes Griffith’s hair to the side with his good hand so he can unzip the purple body suit. “Fine. You win, even though this whole ‘Eclipse’ scenario keeps getting kinkier and kinkier.”
Griffith smiles up at his boyfriend, swiping the mottled purples and reds off of Guts’s face. “And yet, you keep asking for more and more torture every time I get to the ‘I sacrifice’ part,” he teases as Guts dumps the purple outfit onto the nightstand unceremoniously next to the crudely torn wrapping paper. “I’m starting to wonder who actually prefers it more, since someone keeps talking about it all the time.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever,” Guts grumbles, pulling Griffith down and into his side. "Ain't a bad way to spend our first Christmas together, though."
Griffith laughs quietly. "That much we can agree on."
Guts can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips when he looks down at his boyfriend.
“You do look kinda cute when your lipstick’s all fucked up like that,” he says, pressing an uncharacteristically soft kiss to those purple lips. “Merry Christmas, Femto.”
Griffith laughs quietly, fingers carefully dancing along the brand of sacrifice as he runs down Guts’s chest. “Merry Christmas, my sacrifice.”