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[redforce]

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SHANKS

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[redforce]

( when set finally stirs, shanks remembers how to breathe, relief washing over him like a summer wave. quietly, he embraces the witch — no, roza — who revived his previously late wife, softly whispering thank you, i'll take it from here.

it's earlier than shanks would ever be up on a normal day, the sun still only a golden shadow beneath the horizon. but nothing about these past few days has been normal. the kitchen table has been shoved to the other side of the room, leaving the floor in front of the hearth open, with remnants of a ritual scattered about, the fire staving off some of the early morning chill that has settled into the house.

shanks is on his knees before set can even say his name, but there's — something wrong. can he not see shanks right in front of him? )

Set. ( tinged with anxiety, nearly a question. he catches set's hand with his own and squeezes — ) It's me. ( — drawing set's cold palm to his warm cheek. ) I'm here.

[redsoil]

[ there is another in the room — and briefly, he wonders if it is embry. ( and soon enough, that thought will be dashed: he will learn of ash's death, and recognize it was another of the witches who drew him back from his own lifeless state. ) whomever it is, he will owe them gratitude for allowing him a second opportunity to see the game through to the end. and for now, he owes his husband reassurance aplenty.

the sound of a man hitting his knees near to him draws his gaze, his head swiveling towards it as his eyes ( the edges scarred from a tidy blade that took them from his face, as the seams around his throat and ears remain poignant and raw ) dart and weave between light and shadow. set reaches another hand to find shanks's face, the roughened line of his jaw, the trio of scars blazing across his own eye. to dip to the strong line of his shoulder, where his muscles should have wasted away without an arm to keep them active — but he has always been a marvel, his husband has.

petulantly, he frowns and wrinkles his nose and says: ] I suppose I'm not as angry with you, anymore.

[redforce]

( shanks leans into the touch, drawn to it as the shore pulls in a wave — and his eyes are wet, of course they are, but they aren't the tears of grief that well up now, only relief, joy, love love love. he takes the moment to catalog set's face, the fresh scars of such a foul desecration. no killer was ever named convincingly, and shanks' gut wrenches knowing that whoever did this is still out there, could do it again. and there's nothing shanks could conceivably do within the context of this game to stop it, not without evidence.

but then set scrunches his nose and some weight in shanks' chest lifts just a little. he laughs, low and warm, anchoring his hand to set's neck, pressing the heat of his mouth to set's, as if a single, lingering kiss might drive the chill of death away. he only pulls back to say, achingly honest: )

I missed you. ( he's still wearing the earring, the only part of his wife he could keep close. then, quieter, like a secret he's ashamed to tell: ) More than I could bear.

( it's one thing to know that something will end, eventually, with a parting of ways; and another thing entirely to have it ripped away abruptly and gruesomely, with no one to exact vengeance upon. shanks won't ever forgive that. )

[redsoil]

Shh, silly man. I could never stay away for long.

[ Assured as he is of his own eternal nature, even against the strange and perverse rules of the realm: his voice doesn't waver, to promise Shanks that sort of reunion. Death did not frighten him, because of the impermanence; because — even though he cringed and cowered in Shanks's arms after their false memories relinquished their hold upon them, because he feared Osiris near — the deathless quality meant he would never fall into his brother's grasp.

Instead, he can fall into Shanks's arm, creeping stiffly into his warm hold as he bites his teeth into his mouth. Deep and claiming, until he can taste the hint of blood upon him. He throws his legs across Shanks's lap, smelling of incense and salts, the care provided to his body by loving hands testament to his connections.

He pushes his hands into Shanks's hair, straddling him there in the middle of the wreckage of the spellwork that had revived him. Biting him, kissing him, rocking soft and slow into him with lazy urgency — the thrill of revival stirring hot in his blood. ]

Here. Now. [ He drags at clothes, insistent and demanding. ] Fuck me until you do not miss me anymore, my treasure.

[redforce]

( it isn't entirely unlike the first time set crawled into his lap, on the rooftop of the manor, during the last game, the taste of iron on shanks' lip from the bite that set this path in motion. shanks had been more reserved, then, never letting his hands stray too far, letting set open up to him at his own pace. he's less reserved now, biting back in equal measure, rocking his hips to meet set's, holding him close, afraid that if he lets go set will disappear into the earth. )

We'll be here all week, if that's what you really want.

( except that shanks doesn't have the same stamina in this state of powerlessness as he is, and his ribs still haven't healed — but none of that matters right now. the euphoria of set alive and breathing and demanding is more than enough to drown out the simmering pain, a different heat searing through his abdomen, his cock already stirring with interest. a need to fulfill, that he has never been able to deny.

there are sure to be more bodies come sunrise — a distant thought shanks can't possibly entertain with set coming more and more alive with every urging touch and biting kiss. shanks shrugs out of his shirt under set's hands, his strong forearm clasping under set's thighs to lift him just enough to change position, laying him out along the rug crafted from hide or sheepskin, pulling at the cloth around set's hips and throwing it unceremoniously over his shoulder.

at the foot of the hearth sit several clay jars, each filled with oils meant to promote circulation, virility, and healing, warmed by the ambient heat radiating from the fire. left for shanks if the revival did not go as planned. dipping his fingers into one of the jars and spreading set's legs with his thighs, shanks dives forward, his mouth trailing the thin, raw line around set's neck, littering tender skin with bruising kisses, as if to replace one mark with another. a mark of cruelty overshadowed by the frenzied marks of passion. and while his mouth works, so too does his hand, slick fingers teasing set's entrance, urgent as much as they are methodical, driven by the response of set's body and his own intimate knowledge of his wife's pleasure. )

Tell me if it's too much.

( he knows set will, but it bears repeating anyway. the last thing shanks wants to do is push set's body beyond what his newly resurrected form can take. are there any side effects to being brought back to life like this? does his body need time to recover before this kind of strenuous engagement? only the answers seem unimportant the longer he has set under him, radiant in the fire's glow, his hair spilled out beneath him like waves of wine-dark sea. )

[redsoil]

[ There is a yawning chasm within him, ravenous and demanding, that has steadily grown in depth and size since his arrival in Saltburnt; since that fateful agreement last year, and the decision he'd made to effectively safeguard Shanks' life. He tells himself, affirmed and tetchy, that he's not into men — and perhaps he's not, not at large: but, he rests his mind upon the foundation that he is irrevocably "into" Shanks. His steady shoulders, his warm mouth, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that only deepen when his impossible, silly husband gazes upon him with such fondness.

He can barely see that face now, even by firelight. The angles of Shanks's jaw and cheekbone are highlighted by flickering light thrown upon him, and Set cannot make out the particular ruby-red of his hair, or the dappled texture of the old scar on his face. ( They almost match, now. Match again, as they had in another life: both missing limbs. ) It forces him to reach for that dear face, to knead his fingers and palms across the rough line of his jaw, to push his fingertips into the tender space just behind the hinge of it to draw him in. Into silent, urging kisses as he sweeps his calf behind Shanks's knee, trying to draw him in. Faster, now. ]

I was dead, not an invalid. [ The words ought to be teasing, even if the topic is too close, too painful for his husband.

It's not the first time Set's died, though. Nor the first time his body had been torn apart and brutalized; not when he was sand, not when he was flesh and blood. He can barely recall dying before his revival — and knows he'll have to, to put any of his machinations into place to tip the game in his favor. And that's a thought he doesn't want commanding his mind. Not when his sad-eyed husband is taunting him, when he wants with rare, savage form, and he's being forced to wait. Maybe that's why he reaches for clothes, for pants, tearing at the strings to part them across Shanks's strong belly, the sharp line of his hipbones, and the fat base of his cock. ]

Not your fingers. Just this. It still works, yes? Or is it grieving me too strongly?

[ He teases with teeth and inherent meanness, fingers curling around Shanks's cock to draw him out between the folds of his pants. Like coaxing a mourner out from their self-imposed isolation, or just trying to impress on his partner that he's horny after being revived on the same floor he's trying to fuck Shanks on. His darting gaze, unable to focus properly, betrays nothing as well as the mocking curl of his mouth. ]