( shanks grins, lazy as a rising tide, a soundless laugh reaching his eyes. )
I'll look forward to it, then. ( set asking nicely, he means. maybe he might even say yes again, if it's nice enough. if he lives long enough. the bar could always be higher than please.
but there's no obfuscation in his touch when his hand slips over set's waist, light as a feather, warm as the sun, asking a question that remains voiceless between them: is this okay? it's a distraction, perhaps, from the swelling panic he's been swallowing since this morning, that he still finds himself choking on when he thinks of what could have happened — what could still happen. that doesn't make the kindling desire in his chest any less real, though. one way or another, he's certain they would have found themselves here, like this, regardless of the game they happen to be playing. regardless of the fact that shanks has never been particularly good at seducing anybody, even as evasive and cheeky as he can be. most of the time, he's just kind enough to know what people want and generous enough to offer it freely.
his eyes seem to brighten at set's declaration, his hand on set's waist becoming more solid, an anchor hoisted from the depths of the sea, beckoning set forward. )
And after that? ( softly, conspiratorially, leaning into set's touch, the weight of his hand, heat coiling low in shanks' belly. he tilts his head, mouth parted. parched, as only a man who yearns for the sea can be in the face of endless, magnificent desert. wondering, if perhaps they're having a second conversation, one that has less to do with subterfuge and more to do with something else: this nameless, unspoken desire swirling between them, not yet a sandstorm, not yet a typhoon, not yet destructive but no less hungry. )
no subject
I'll look forward to it, then. ( set asking nicely, he means. maybe he might even say yes again, if it's nice enough. if he lives long enough. the bar could always be higher than please.
but there's no obfuscation in his touch when his hand slips over set's waist, light as a feather, warm as the sun, asking a question that remains voiceless between them: is this okay? it's a distraction, perhaps, from the swelling panic he's been swallowing since this morning, that he still finds himself choking on when he thinks of what could have happened — what could still happen. that doesn't make the kindling desire in his chest any less real, though. one way or another, he's certain they would have found themselves here, like this, regardless of the game they happen to be playing. regardless of the fact that shanks has never been particularly good at seducing anybody, even as evasive and cheeky as he can be. most of the time, he's just kind enough to know what people want and generous enough to offer it freely.
his eyes seem to brighten at set's declaration, his hand on set's waist becoming more solid, an anchor hoisted from the depths of the sea, beckoning set forward. )
And after that? ( softly, conspiratorially, leaning into set's touch, the weight of his hand, heat coiling low in shanks' belly. he tilts his head, mouth parted. parched, as only a man who yearns for the sea can be in the face of endless, magnificent desert. wondering, if perhaps they're having a second conversation, one that has less to do with subterfuge and more to do with something else: this nameless, unspoken desire swirling between them, not yet a sandstorm, not yet a typhoon, not yet destructive but no less hungry. )