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SHANKS

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[ 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. ]