He hisses under the renewed attention, slow to remedy it with a gentle tug, first at Griffith's sleeves, wrinkling under Guts' hands, then at his shoulders. His grip turns steely, catching now and holding, half lifting and half nudging back Griffith like an anchor that should be deposited to serve its proper use — a possession Guts can shift and place as he pleases.

Griffith's weight serves him, a faint and negligible complication that Guts won't pretend to be obstructed by past the initial effort of a laughing half breath.

"Nothing means you don't need me here now," he warns with a slight show of teeth, no where as menacing as he might have been those precious few moonrises ago, when Griffith had yet to glimpse new ways to stab at his softness.

Nothing, so he pushes Griffith back, just strong enough to signal there are conversations that precede lust, and they're speaking those words now. "Talk."