( attached: definitely not a reused dick pic because finding a new one is too much effort!!! but also it is tastefully framed by the robe, which he is still wearing. it is Art.
then, as if reading set's mind — )
For next time.
( — by which he does not mean faking his death, actually. )
[ Maybe it's good that Shanks can't read his mind yet. For all that Set steamrolls his way through intimacy, charging it with an emptied mind and a determination not to allow it to reach beyond the surface of his consciousness — he's uncertain of many things.
Men, definitely, are at the too of that list. Men who take to their knees have a place he can rationally slot them into, but the men who retain their dominance challenge him ( in more ways than one ). And then there is Shanks, who simply exudes confidence, prowess and little desire to wrest control from Set's hands.
To receive a... dick pic.... is completely new. He has to do a lot of studying the texts, the composition of the photo, and what he knows of Shanks's temperament before responding. ]
You know, I did not really pay mind to that part of him while I was in the midst of it. I might have bitten it off if I had.
( there's a necessary sort of detachment from the shanks lounging in the nude, playfully discussing certain endowments — and the shanks who sought set's aid in concocting this little scheme, who largely left the details in set's capable hands. shanks knew, of course, the broad strokes. knew what it would cost (that you cannot fake a death without a body). but it isn't something he's thinking about now with any real seriousness, that part of him neatly compartmentalized with all the rest of the difficult decisions he's had to make to protect people. perhaps that makes him callous, or perhaps he's simply used to making sacrifices most people aren't willing to make. )
Well, I should hope not. I am rather fond of it.
( keeping it light, no real hint of suggestion yet, though it could be read that way between the lines. )
[ For a while, Shanks is left On Read. After all, Set doesn't really have a lot of manners to begin with, even less so when it comes to Unspoken Digital Manners, like not just leaving someone On Read. He's busy, scheming and biding his time and hiding the horrible nose ( sorry carnival jesus: buggy the clown ) he's been forced to don for his part in "cheating".
It's not CHEATING. It's being resourceful, he will declare it from the heavens.
Eventually, the sound of footfalls on sand might reach Shanks. The heat of the faux-desert beyond the veils of the tent might gleam brighter, the dunes shifting like the angles of a body waking slowly from the depths of slumber; an animal's flank rippling as it rises. Alive, even in pantomime. Set steps through the veils, dressed down from his "wintery" attired he'd worn to the first round of voting. Back in his desert finery, looking so very comfortable in the heat. A mote of longing in his eyes as he looks out beyond the tent's gauzy veils, as if he wants to run off into the land beyond.
Into himself, actually.
Eventually, he returns his bright gaze to the mostly-naked man before him, and quietly approaches. Sleek, quiet, as he slips to his knees and leans over Shanks with a studious, implacable expression. The kind he wears just before he does something without warning. The "something" being unpredictable. ]
Do you know what it is like, to know yourself for every grain of sand? To feel feet upon you, crossing you from end to end? To count every fallen body as it is bleached and swallowed, lost forever within you? To kill all life that enters you, because it simply cannot survive?
[ He leans, slow and predatory, over the other man. A hand slipping below the robe he's donned, fanning across the strong muscles there, across his ribs. How unfortunate that these intense questions are just,
( it isn't the first time set has left him on read, and shanks suspects it probably won't be the last: the next time shanks implies something of that nature, he won't be surprised if set is quick to retreat. not that it particularly bothers him, not that he ever expects anything of it, even if right now it leaves him with nothing more than his thoughts and his hand and his warm, sweat-damp skin that conjures the memory of set's mouth, the heat of his tongue.
shanks rarely indulges in fantasies, too disinterested in his own pleasure to bother most of the time, the shape of his desire molded by what others would want from him, a sandcastle on the beach easily dashed by an oncoming wave — but by the time he recognizes set's approach, the evidence of shanks' indulgence is clear: his hair more unkempt than usual, the stains on the robe he'd used to clean himself with, the distinct scent of arousal still clinging to his skin.
he drinks set in, from the slops of his bare shoulders to the subtle dip of his waist and then back up, drawn in by the fullness of set's mouth, the intensity of his gaze. shanks tilts his head as if to consider the questions set poses, or perhaps to invite him closer, mouth quirking lazily at the weight of set's hand upon him and the heat that touch coils in his belly. is this what it is to be a grain of sand under the heat of the desert sun? )
I am only a man. ( as if to prove his point, shanks slides set's hand lower until it brushes the flushed head of his cock, all the while holding set's gaze with the unwavering confidence of someone saying i dare you, the unspoken challenge etched in the corners of his mouth like ancient texts carved into stone. ) How could that compare to the divine?
( the nose, of course, barely even registers. why would it when the face that so often occupies shanks' mind has one just like it? he hasn't spoken to buggy in decades, has only heard of buggy's antics secondhand — but shanks knows buggy better than he knows anyone, is intimately familiar with his particular brand of intensity, even if neither of them knew what they were doing then or what it meant to stare at each other and want to be consumed. he doesn't have to imagine what it might be like now, both of them grown, both of them starving — all he really has to do is look at set. )
[ Their ruse had lasted only the night, in the end. And that was all that was needed: for "Shanks" to be swept off the board, lost among the tangle of kills and hidden by death. If he were dead before the wolfing hour, there would be no draw to target him. That Set could be so generous to suggest the ruse ( and carry it out, personally ) is both self-serving and selfless; he is, after all, a god of distant vision and clarity. Something that sees a grander picture and spoils it with his petulance.
Leaving Shanks tucked away in the garden of sand, silent and playing along so faithfully — it's like having a handsome bauble ( a treat; a gift; a secret ) to return to and look over from time to time. He's not so shallow as to not understand that — he's stolen the redhaired man from his friends, both his "life" and his presence. That Shanks had allowed himself to be stolen away.
That's a strange trait, for a man to have, Set thinks. It does things to him that he doesn't know how to describe. Only that the intensity feels like when Horus looks upon him, single-minded and devoted and yearning. An intent so hungry he wants to cry, pained and eager, for it. ]
You are. [ A man.
Set slides one hand around the back of Shanks's neck, urging him up into an easy kiss. The warm heat of his mouth passing in slow pulls, teeth rolling his bottom lip soft between them. ]
I thought that men did not do well alone, with only themselves for company. You seem fine enough.
[ Entertained, even. Wet with eagerness he'd needed to display to Set's eye, like dick was a lure and he was a fish. Honestly, he doesn't understand men sometimes — doesn't think of himself as attracted to their sex, the way he strays toward the natural draw of women. And yet, he doesn't falter in wrapping his pale fingers around the pink, stiff head of Shanks's cock — thumb stroking across the ridge of flesh connecting it to the length of him. ]
I thought you were more patient than this, Shanks. Did you think of me? Like this? Or did you look outside and think of me like that? Which "me" put you in this state, you desperate thing?
( this isn't the first time they've kissed, nor even the second — and yet it still feels new, electric, a storm brewing at sea just at the edge of the horizon. dangerous to pursue, perhaps, but worth the risk of trying. he might be an emperor now, laden with the weight of a legacy not meant for him, burdened with responsibility he never asked for, but he hasn't quite lost his sense of adventure, his taste for recklessness and chaos. he hums softly against the warmth of set's mouth, content even with the tug of teeth at his lip — though he can't help but huff a laugh at set's assessment that he seems fine enough, when in fact he hasn't felt this kind of coiling need spur him on alone in a long, long time. )
Most drive themselves mad with desire for the touch of a woman. ( he's seen it in his own crew, the way too long at sea affects them like a sickness, the way they all list toward the railing as if they want to throw themselves overboard and swim to the nearest brothel at the sight of land. shanks has never had any interest in that sort of thing — least of all because he has no interest in women, most of all because he'd only ever allowed two people to touch him like that before he arrived here, before the halls of saltburnt gave him reasons enough to want.
he throws his head back into the pillows, rocking into set's grip encouragingly, the soft groan rising from his throat seeming to say yes, like that and you're insufferable in equal measure. it's a fond exasperation, of course; he wouldn't have it any other way. the crooked slant of his mouth is proof enough of that, the gentle weight of his hand dragging set back to his mouth leaving little room to interpret shanks' desire as anything other than genuine. )
I do rather prefer not swallowing sand when we kiss. ( and yet, despite his flippancy, there is something distinctly arousing about the sheer vastness of set's domain, the thought that coarse grains slipping through his fingers is no different from the smooth strands brushing against his chest. ) And this — ( lifting a lock of hair to his lips, only briefly ) — and this — ( before his fingers sweep across set's ribs to trail feather-light over bare skin and up the curve of set's spine. ) How else am I meant to make the desert shiver?
( of course he'd thought about it, after their rendezvous on the rooftop, after he'd left with the lingering taste of set on his tongue. of course he'd thought about what the rest of set might taste like, what he might sound like coming apart under shanks' touch. but there hasn't been time to consider it as anything more than a fleeting fancy, no room to seriously entertain such an encounter — until now, it seems. )
returns to rp with a fucking novel-length tag also cw some toxic masculinity thoughts
[ There's something frustratingly attractive about Shanks, even to the eye of a god who continues to proclaim himself not interested in men. He cannot place it.
Is it the red of his hair, so impossibly vibrant that he looks as though he could belong to Set? An adherent in vision that would be reviled and pursued to a bloody, painful end in the lands of Egypt — for some alluded-to relationship simply due to him being born a redhead. Might it be the strength of his body, maimed as he is and alive despite the crippling injury that robbed him of a dominant arm but not his strength? Something as simply as the physical shape of him, lean and strong and rounded in the pecs in a way that makes Set's mouth water and his fingers ache to sink into soft muscle and rake nails down the line of his belly to those sharp hipbones, perhaps?
Or his strange personality, indulgent and witty. Willing to give and give, so very hungry to starve himself for some distant image that Set knows exists, but does not know the complexity of. They're a little similar, the two of them, in that regard. Distant-visioned individuals willing to use externally-devised reputations to accomplish a difficult task. He sees a bit of himself in Shanks's acceptance of people's opinions of him, the way he allows them to shape his myth, and unveils himself only to those he deems trustworthy enough to share in the strained reality. ]
I have seen it, too.
[ Men at war, hungry for female contact. For their wives and intended ones, aching to their core with yearning both platonic and sexual. He's seen men turn to one another for something, and has never thought ill of them; it wasn't for him, loyal as he was to Nephthys and his family, but it wasn't wrong. Even if he saw himself in the conquering half, and not the submitting half of the pairings. ( Even if he'd never allow himself to enjoy submission, because it was not a man's role to be underneath another man. ) ( Not until the raw hedonism of that foreigner, careless with his cock and hungry for sex that held no room for thoughts. Only spine-melting pleasure, given and taken alike. )
Maybe Shanks is a little like that, and it eases Set's mind. That he isn't dreaming of using intimacy to force the god of war into a position of weakness, but seeking only the closeness of bodies. Set comes alive with heat, radiating from his belly to his hips and seizing the long line of his throat; his mouth dry, tongue wet as he licks into Shanks's mouth and traces the edge of his teeth. A little desperate, his fingers wrapped around the length of the man's cock, pressing it to his thigh as he pets and strokes its hardness. ]
— I have experience with a woman whom I was devoted to in marriage for centuries. [ He answers Shanks's question about making him shiver with innocent honesty, perceiving it as an equally-honest inquiry. Seems he responds well to earnest individuals, honesty and a little bit of lazy sweetness. ] Men do not usually want me to shiver under their hands.
[ They want him to break. ]
What you did when I was gone... do it again. Show me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ WHAT IF THERE IS A NEXT TIME ]
no subject
then, as if reading set's mind — )
For next time.
( — by which he does not mean faking his death, actually. )
no subject
Men, definitely, are at the too of that list. Men who take to their knees have a place he can rationally slot them into, but the men who retain their dominance challenge him ( in more ways than one ). And then there is Shanks, who simply exudes confidence, prowess and little desire to wrest control from Set's hands.
To receive a... dick pic.... is completely new. He has to do a lot of studying the texts, the composition of the photo, and what he knows of Shanks's temperament before responding. ]
You know, I did not really pay mind to that part of him while I was in the midst of it. I might have bitten it off if I had.
Not that I would be so cruel to you.
no subject
Well, I should hope not.
I am rather fond of it.
( keeping it light, no real hint of suggestion yet, though it could be read that way between the lines. )
no subject
It's not CHEATING. It's being resourceful, he will declare it from the heavens.
Eventually, the sound of footfalls on sand might reach Shanks. The heat of the faux-desert beyond the veils of the tent might gleam brighter, the dunes shifting like the angles of a body waking slowly from the depths of slumber; an animal's flank rippling as it rises. Alive, even in pantomime. Set steps through the veils, dressed down from his "wintery" attired he'd worn to the first round of voting. Back in his desert finery, looking so very comfortable in the heat. A mote of longing in his eyes as he looks out beyond the tent's gauzy veils, as if he wants to run off into the land beyond.
Into himself, actually.
Eventually, he returns his bright gaze to the mostly-naked man before him, and quietly approaches. Sleek, quiet, as he slips to his knees and leans over Shanks with a studious, implacable expression. The kind he wears just before he does something without warning. The "something" being unpredictable. ]
Do you know what it is like, to know yourself for every grain of sand? To feel feet upon you, crossing you from end to end? To count every fallen body as it is bleached and swallowed, lost forever within you? To kill all life that enters you, because it simply cannot survive?
[ He leans, slow and predatory, over the other man. A hand slipping below the robe he's donned, fanning across the strong muscles there, across his ribs. How unfortunate that these intense questions are just,
he's got the clown nose on his face. :o( ]
no subject
shanks rarely indulges in fantasies, too disinterested in his own pleasure to bother most of the time, the shape of his desire molded by what others would want from him, a sandcastle on the beach easily dashed by an oncoming wave — but by the time he recognizes set's approach, the evidence of shanks' indulgence is clear: his hair more unkempt than usual, the stains on the robe he'd used to clean himself with, the distinct scent of arousal still clinging to his skin.
he drinks set in, from the slops of his bare shoulders to the subtle dip of his waist and then back up, drawn in by the fullness of set's mouth, the intensity of his gaze. shanks tilts his head as if to consider the questions set poses, or perhaps to invite him closer, mouth quirking lazily at the weight of set's hand upon him and the heat that touch coils in his belly. is this what it is to be a grain of sand under the heat of the desert sun? )
I am only a man. ( as if to prove his point, shanks slides set's hand lower until it brushes the flushed head of his cock, all the while holding set's gaze with the unwavering confidence of someone saying i dare you, the unspoken challenge etched in the corners of his mouth like ancient texts carved into stone. ) How could that compare to the divine?
( the nose, of course, barely even registers. why would it when the face that so often occupies shanks' mind has one just like it? he hasn't spoken to buggy in decades, has only heard of buggy's antics secondhand — but shanks knows buggy better than he knows anyone, is intimately familiar with his particular brand of intensity, even if neither of them knew what they were doing then or what it meant to stare at each other and want to be consumed. he doesn't have to imagine what it might be like now, both of them grown, both of them starving — all he really has to do is look at set. )
no subject
Leaving Shanks tucked away in the garden of sand, silent and playing along so faithfully — it's like having a handsome bauble ( a treat; a gift; a secret ) to return to and look over from time to time. He's not so shallow as to not understand that — he's stolen the redhaired man from his friends, both his "life" and his presence. That Shanks had allowed himself to be stolen away.
That's a strange trait, for a man to have, Set thinks. It does things to him that he doesn't know how to describe. Only that the intensity feels like when Horus looks upon him, single-minded and devoted and yearning. An intent so hungry he wants to cry, pained and eager, for it. ]
You are. [ A man.
Set slides one hand around the back of Shanks's neck, urging him up into an easy kiss. The warm heat of his mouth passing in slow pulls, teeth rolling his bottom lip soft between them. ]
I thought that men did not do well alone, with only themselves for company. You seem fine enough.
[ Entertained, even. Wet with eagerness he'd needed to display to Set's eye, like dick was a lure and he was a fish. Honestly, he doesn't understand men sometimes — doesn't think of himself as attracted to their sex, the way he strays toward the natural draw of women. And yet, he doesn't falter in wrapping his pale fingers around the pink, stiff head of Shanks's cock — thumb stroking across the ridge of flesh connecting it to the length of him. ]
I thought you were more patient than this, Shanks. Did you think of me? Like this? Or did you look outside and think of me like that? Which "me" put you in this state, you desperate thing?
no subject
Most drive themselves mad with desire for the touch of a woman. ( he's seen it in his own crew, the way too long at sea affects them like a sickness, the way they all list toward the railing as if they want to throw themselves overboard and swim to the nearest brothel at the sight of land. shanks has never had any interest in that sort of thing — least of all because he has no interest in women, most of all because he'd only ever allowed two people to touch him like that before he arrived here, before the halls of saltburnt gave him reasons enough to want.
he throws his head back into the pillows, rocking into set's grip encouragingly, the soft groan rising from his throat seeming to say yes, like that and you're insufferable in equal measure. it's a fond exasperation, of course; he wouldn't have it any other way. the crooked slant of his mouth is proof enough of that, the gentle weight of his hand dragging set back to his mouth leaving little room to interpret shanks' desire as anything other than genuine. )
I do rather prefer not swallowing sand when we kiss. ( and yet, despite his flippancy, there is something distinctly arousing about the sheer vastness of set's domain, the thought that coarse grains slipping through his fingers is no different from the smooth strands brushing against his chest. ) And this — ( lifting a lock of hair to his lips, only briefly ) — and this — ( before his fingers sweep across set's ribs to trail feather-light over bare skin and up the curve of set's spine. ) How else am I meant to make the desert shiver?
( of course he'd thought about it, after their rendezvous on the rooftop, after he'd left with the lingering taste of set on his tongue. of course he'd thought about what the rest of set might taste like, what he might sound like coming apart under shanks' touch. but there hasn't been time to consider it as anything more than a fleeting fancy, no room to seriously entertain such an encounter — until now, it seems. )
returns to rp with a fucking novel-length tag also cw some toxic masculinity thoughts
Is it the red of his hair, so impossibly vibrant that he looks as though he could belong to Set? An adherent in vision that would be reviled and pursued to a bloody, painful end in the lands of Egypt — for some alluded-to relationship simply due to him being born a redhead. Might it be the strength of his body, maimed as he is and alive despite the crippling injury that robbed him of a dominant arm but not his strength? Something as simply as the physical shape of him, lean and strong and rounded in the pecs in a way that makes Set's mouth water and his fingers ache to sink into soft muscle and rake nails down the line of his belly to those sharp hipbones, perhaps?
Or his strange personality, indulgent and witty. Willing to give and give, so very hungry to starve himself for some distant image that Set knows exists, but does not know the complexity of. They're a little similar, the two of them, in that regard. Distant-visioned individuals willing to use externally-devised reputations to accomplish a difficult task. He sees a bit of himself in Shanks's acceptance of people's opinions of him, the way he allows them to shape his myth, and unveils himself only to those he deems trustworthy enough to share in the strained reality. ]
I have seen it, too.
[ Men at war, hungry for female contact. For their wives and intended ones, aching to their core with yearning both platonic and sexual. He's seen men turn to one another for something, and has never thought ill of them; it wasn't for him, loyal as he was to Nephthys and his family, but it wasn't wrong. Even if he saw himself in the conquering half, and not the submitting half of the pairings. ( Even if he'd never allow himself to enjoy submission, because it was not a man's role to be underneath another man. ) ( Not until the raw hedonism of that foreigner, careless with his cock and hungry for sex that held no room for thoughts. Only spine-melting pleasure, given and taken alike. )
Maybe Shanks is a little like that, and it eases Set's mind. That he isn't dreaming of using intimacy to force the god of war into a position of weakness, but seeking only the closeness of bodies. Set comes alive with heat, radiating from his belly to his hips and seizing the long line of his throat; his mouth dry, tongue wet as he licks into Shanks's mouth and traces the edge of his teeth. A little desperate, his fingers wrapped around the length of the man's cock, pressing it to his thigh as he pets and strokes its hardness. ]
— I have experience with a woman whom I was devoted to in marriage for centuries. [ He answers Shanks's question about making him shiver with innocent honesty, perceiving it as an equally-honest inquiry. Seems he responds well to earnest individuals, honesty and a little bit of lazy sweetness. ] Men do not usually want me to shiver under their hands.
[ They want him to break. ]
What you did when I was gone... do it again. Show me.