Well-- [There's a laugh as he tips his head back, giving the other as much space to roam over and bite as he desires. There's a roll of his hips, teasing.]
Some part of you doesn't seem to find me hideous. Quite the opposite, I'd say.
[His hand slips beneath the water in favor of brushing fingers up over a thigh.]
You're rather remarkable when it comes to putting up with me...
[It wouldn't be his personal choice to be scarred and maimed but. Shanks wears it well, he must admit. And it does make him an easy target to be underestimated, which could be fun in certain circumstances, perhaps.]
Once in a while. [Only in small doses. He dips in and out of Shanks's life as if he was subject to the fleeting whims of the winds. He doesn't want to be tied down to being a part of anyone's crew. But when he is around, he does seem to tend to want to make the most of it. Mihawk seems to only come in that intense and serious flavour, or not be there at all. There's very little in between.]
What are you looking for down there? [The light, almost ticklish touch almost has his lips twitching as he jerks back a bit and makes a small splash.]
And here I thought you were guiding this little adventure.
[His hand curls loosely around the other man as he tips his head back with a contented sigh, eyes darting between them. Not that he can see much through through bubbles and water.]
Would you really take my lead? [Hard to get a read on this man sometimes. He has his own way of doing things and would never let anyone else tell him what to do or where to go. But at other times he can be so casual and just go with the flow, wherever that flow takes him.]
Don't trouble yourself on my behalf... [Can't be that easy to give a massage with one hand. Especially when he's not multitasking so well with Mihawk's mouth roaming over patches of his wet, soapy skin.]
"Perhaps just this once..." Or perhaps he'll decide to guide in the end after all. It is rather difficult to tell with Shanks, but right now, he's feeling relaxed. Lazy, even. And he's rather enjoying the attention he's getting.
A low moan leaves his lips as he presses closer to his mouth, encouraging. "Mihawk," he sighs contentedly, almost fondly.
Well if he's saying his name like that... Maybe he'll allow some wrestling of control here and there. Even if he's being lazy and lying there, touching and sweet talking him.
"And you're nice and clean now." Him tasting like soap isn't deterring Mihawk's apparently talented mouth although now it seems a little bit of a waste to get them dirty again...
Not that it's deterring any underwater touching and rubbing and all that wish-fulfilling lap action.
"And you're dirtying me up again," he teases, just on the edge of breathless with the way Mihawk's mouth works over his skin, wondering how many marks he'll have left after this.
"Should we move from the bath or are you happy here?" His hand slides around to grope the other's ass, dragging him a bit closer.
Nothing that can be visible once he's got clothes on, but. Definitely a peppering of dirty little secrets on the side of his neck, on the collarbone, on his jawline that might look like a one-handed shaving accident in passing...
He pauses and lowers his gaze, admiring wet red hair sticking to Shanks's forehead and the tops of his cheeks. He's alright here but it is a little cramped, their fingers and toes are starting to prune and he's thinking perhaps he should fish Shanks out of the water before it gets too cold and unpleasant. They can always fill up the tub again when they're done.
Towels are spread out and thrown behind Shanks's head onto the floor, and he tries to 'help' by picking Shanks up out of the bathtub and (gentlyish) shoving him onto the layers of towels. Seems like the unspoken rule is the one with two hands will stay on top and that's working out fine for Mihawk. He resumes where his mouth had left off in short order, but allows more of his weight to settle down in the lower halves of their bodies.
Pretty obvious now what they're in the mood for without the foam to hide that part of their bodies...
"Whoa, hey--" He wasn't expecting being picked up or shoved on to the towels that will undoubtedly be soaked by them both now, as wet as they still are. But it's hard to feel very indignant when it ends with him on the ground with a very attractive swordsman back on him in short order.
There's a breathless noise that passes his lips as he slides his hand up through dark hair, tangling in firmly as he arches beneath him, eager. "Eager, are we?"
He can't help but tease, regardless.
He's also rather eager, if the way he moves his body is any indication at all. He arches beneath Mihawk, an effort to grind up against him for even more contact between them.
"My apologies." He knows it's cold and hard and uncomfortable lying on the tiles, even with the towels there, and nobody likes being manhandled. Shanks will get over it.
He can always try to wrestle Mihawk to swap positions, but good luck with that. He's really got him going now if the noise Mihawk made at the fist in his hair and how much harder he's biting is any indication to go by.
If he hasn't made his intention clear enough just yet, there is a hand between the hard lines of their bodies gripping their cocks jerking them off. He's inserting his coins one at a time before he enjoys his Shanks ride.
He's already over it, honestly. Cool tile is an acceptable trade off for Mihawk on top of him like he is. There's a breathy groan as he arches beneath the other man. There's a look that's cast between them when that hand grips at them, lips twitching into a brief grin before he huffs out.
"Not bad, Hawk Eyes..." His own hands slide from the other man's hair to drag blunt nails over the other's back.
"Maybe I should let you drag me into the bath more often..."
He fails to see the point. All the baths in the world couldn't wash Shanks into a new man. Well, alright, if it means more of what they're doing now, there might be a point...
"What makes you think I'll stay?" He murmurs quietly, brushing his thumb up the side and over a sensitive, twitching head. Nimble fingers drag down the length of the shaft, unusually gentle and yet Shanks could be forgiven for thinking that every little move is calculated and this game is rigged to make him squirm.
It definitely means more of what they're doing now -- and possibly then some.
His own hand is enthusiastically exploring every bit of Mihawk he can, over his back, slipping down to his ass to knead into firm muscle as he tries to rock his hips up, digging a heel into the ground. There's a huff and he looks up at the other man in amusement.
"Not yet." Not until he gets what he wants and even then - it wouldn't be like him to leave in the cold light of day and have them both feeling a little worse for wear, a little more used. He might have a bit of a cruel streak in him but he tends to save that for other bumbling idiots. Not this particular bumbling idiot trying to fuck his hand, whom he unfortunately happens to be a little fond of.
"I could leave now if you insist." Would he simply up and walk away, even if he seems eager, rubbing and moving his hips more than suggestively while straddled down low in Shanks's lap? He's probably petty enough to do that.
But then again, he might not give Shanks too much time to insist upon anything if he's already reaching with his left hand behind his back to try and guide that hard cock inside. What can he say? He's very uptight. Of course he would make for a tight and intense fuck.
Bumbling idiot? It's not Shanks's fault that Mihawk carries a little bit of a sore ego from all those duels he's lost to him, thank you. But he might be a little fond of this dour, somber idiot, himself.
"Don't you dare," Shanks answers, breathless. As if he could do anything more than try to hang on with hi single arm when Mihawk decides to do that. Lips part breathlessly, a barely contained noise tangling in his throat as he breaches almost too-tight heat. His head lulls back and his muscles tense and strain under the attention.
"You keep this up and I'll be very sad to see you go, Mihawk." For multiple reasons, really, but they can keep it about fucking.
There's the Shanks he's looking for. Or at least the bark even if there's not much of a bite anymore. Mihawk isn't done punishing Shanks yet. He'll leave, and they'll both suffer for it, for reasons they shall and shan't talk about, but. He'll come back eventually, when he's gotten a bit more over himself.
He won't leave right now though. He's rather-- busy. Teeth biting down on his lower lip muffles the discomfort and the slow-spreading but enjoyable burn. The hot flushes are all the more prominent on his pale skin, and everything from stifled moans to quiet whimpers echo particularly well off the bathroom tiles.
He's pushing himself up with his arm after a moment, narrowing the space between them as he settles his hand on Mihawk's hip, keeping him pressed close. He could listen to those sounds all night, he thinks, and maybe he will -- at least until Mihawk leaves him again, until he shows up like a particularly unruly stray looking for a bit of cream again.
The thought has him grinning as he tries to coax the other into not biting his own lip and into a proper kiss. "You do look gorgeous like this, Hawk Eyes."
Flushed and whimpering, and most importantly, on his cock without a complaint in the world.
The sound that escapes his lips when Shanks steals a kiss is one he would never admit to even be capable of making. A quiet moan and a weak and needy and vulnerable sort of gasp, shuffled into the deck of short, shallow pants and eyebrows-knitting grunts. He could very well ride Shanks like he stole him, and on any other occasion he might have chosen violence, but it always seems like a slower and more sensual affair every time they meet like this (should they really ought to stop meeting like this?)
He probably doesn't look nearly as fierce as he would like, that intense stare tempered by the haze that's slowly sinking in and taking over his body. Knees red and raw, one hand on lukewarm tiles and the other fisted in creased wet towel, twisting and wringing as he tightens around Shanks in irregular little spasms.
"I look gorgeous-- all the time," he points out between noises he begrudgingly lets Shanks elicit from him. Dark curls drift down over his forehead, threatening to obscure those half-lidded golden orbs Shanks seems to enjoy peering into. (No, he's decided they shouldn't stop meeting like this.)
It's moments like these that he misses having two arms, it's almost palpable. Frustrating in ways he rarely shows others. He has to decide between holding the other close or moving his hand if he wants to touch, and ignoring the near ache that comes from the left side that wants to reach out. But there's no real sense in mourning the loss any more, letting a frustration like that ruin the moment when Mihawk is giving much more intoxicating sounds than that.
There's a breathless chuckle as he slides his hand begrudgingly from around the other to between their bodies to wrap around his cock proper. "I can't argue that."
All pale skin and oozing confidence... who wouldn't be tempted to tear down that stoic demeanor to see what's underneath? No matter how dangerous it may be. "But especially when your guard is down a bit."
He doesn't let people see him like this all that often so, perhaps Shanks is right. He wouldn't know, all wet and in a fucked out mess, stifling his quiet little groans with teeth in his lips and forcing the light quivers and trembles out of his thighs as best he can, whether he looks better coming undone or whether he should work harder to maintain some semblance of control and elegance. Put his guard back up.
Though there's nothing elegant about riding cock on the bathroom floor. And it's not easy to stay guarded with an eager hand spurring his hips into more action, callouses and soft muscle squeezing and rubbing along sensitive taut skin.
At some point he-- curses or gets closer to God or-- he can't quite remember, but he does look to be in agony when he cums harder than he cares to admit, hips staying unnaturally still as he makes a mess on Shanks's tight abdomen. Blunt nails leave white scratches on tan skin as they undo all those cleaning efforts from the bathtub earlier.
Oh well. Another excuse to scrub and touch and caress and crawl into a welcoming lap. And bite, of course. Like he hasn't spent half the night nibbling trails up the sides of Shanks's neck.
There's nothing especially elegant about having sex on a wet bathroom floor, no. But sex isn't especially elegant ever, is it? It's messy and all-encompassing when it's good, and not much room to care about any of that nonsense. Or at least, that's how it is for Shanks when he's too caught up in teeth and nails, and a tight, hot body gripping at him in ways that make his head spin.
Then there's a moment when all that facade breaks apart for Mihawk and his expression twists in pleasure and Shanks feels the proof of that spurting from his cock, making a mess of them both again. It's only when he's milked over last drop of it that his hand slows and stops, and his own mouth moves to leave breathless, sated kisses over pale skin.
One day, he should ask how he manages that, keeping the sun from kissing all that perfectly flawless skin when he spends so much time at sea. But it's not important right now, not as much as leaving a few of his own marks behind while he can.
"Are you going to clean me up again?" He teases after a moment.
There must be some divine secret, mustn't there? Somehow despite making a habit of sailing without a shirt, in a coffin with sails and barely any shelter to speak of, getting into altercations intentionally and unintentionally, he hasn't got any tan lines or so much as a blemish to speak of. Maybe it's Maybelline?
He shamelessly rests the weight of his body on Shanks - nobody thinks of him as a delicate, fragile flower, with two arms or one - and for a long minute, he lies still save for the light caressing of pale bony fingers along Shanks's remaining arm and his chest rising and falling with every laboured breath.
"Hnh. I suppose you need it..." And this time he might let Shanks soak until all their fingers prune - or the water goes cold. Whichever comes first.
It is quite interesting -- certainly worth investigating. Maybe exploring that body for one single blemish. A bruise or a scratch that isn't one that Shanks, himself, has left behind. But for now, he's rather content to sit where they are. On an uncomfortable tile floor, with the pressure and weight of one of the most feared swordsmen sat on his lap.
He turns his head to press a kiss somewhere along the sharp line of a jaw as his fingers trail up Mihawk's side affectionately. He wishes he had two hands to appreciate with, but well--
This works just as well. "And whose fault is that?"
"Entirely yours, I should think." Obviously, Mihawk is the drifter, the guest of honour, the one night stand (granted, it has been several nights now.) He is entirely faultless and blameless.
He slowly pushes himself up to his hands and knees, eyes roaming down the length of Shanks's battered and bruised, scarred and abused body. He really ought to take better care of himself.
"I'm climbing back in," Mihawk announces after a moment. "Enjoy the floor."
"Correct me if I'm mistaken, but you were the one riding me..." And making quite a mess of both of them, he should add. But fine. Let Mihawk think as he pleases. He shakes his head, huffing out an amused sigh.
Fine. He uses his good hand to push himself up. Maybe he wouldn't be bruised and battered if a certain swordsman quit biting and grabbing... But that's neither here, nor there.
Now he's grimacing as he sinks into the water. "Cold, cold! Warm it back up!"
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Some part of you doesn't seem to find me hideous. Quite the opposite, I'd say.
[His hand slips beneath the water in favor of brushing fingers up over a thigh.]
You're rather remarkable when it comes to putting up with me...
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Once in a while. [Only in small doses. He dips in and out of Shanks's life as if he was subject to the fleeting whims of the winds. He doesn't want to be tied down to being a part of anyone's crew. But when he is around, he does seem to tend to want to make the most of it. Mihawk seems to only come in that intense and serious flavour, or not be there at all. There's very little in between.]
What are you looking for down there? [The light, almost ticklish touch almost has his lips twitching as he jerks back a bit and makes a small splash.]
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[His hand curls loosely around the other man as he tips his head back with a contented sigh, eyes darting between them. Not that he can see much through through bubbles and water.]
I suppose I owe you a massage in return, hm?
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Don't trouble yourself on my behalf... [Can't be that easy to give a massage with one hand. Especially when he's not multitasking so well with Mihawk's mouth roaming over patches of his wet, soapy skin.]
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A low moan leaves his lips as he presses closer to his mouth, encouraging. "Mihawk," he sighs contentedly, almost fondly.
"You're surprisingly talented with your mouth..."
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"And you're nice and clean now." Him tasting like soap isn't deterring Mihawk's apparently talented mouth although now it seems a little bit of a waste to get them dirty again...
Not that it's deterring any underwater touching and rubbing and all that wish-fulfilling lap action.
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"Should we move from the bath or are you happy here?" His hand slides around to grope the other's ass, dragging him a bit closer.
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He pauses and lowers his gaze, admiring wet red hair sticking to Shanks's forehead and the tops of his cheeks. He's alright here but it is a little cramped, their fingers and toes are starting to prune and he's thinking perhaps he should fish Shanks out of the water before it gets too cold and unpleasant. They can always fill up the tub again when they're done.
Towels are spread out and thrown behind Shanks's head onto the floor, and he tries to 'help' by picking Shanks up out of the bathtub and (gentlyish) shoving him onto the layers of towels. Seems like the unspoken rule is the one with two hands will stay on top and that's working out fine for Mihawk. He resumes where his mouth had left off in short order, but allows more of his weight to settle down in the lower halves of their bodies.
Pretty obvious now what they're in the mood for without the foam to hide that part of their bodies...
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There's a breathless noise that passes his lips as he slides his hand up through dark hair, tangling in firmly as he arches beneath him, eager. "Eager, are we?"
He can't help but tease, regardless.
He's also rather eager, if the way he moves his body is any indication at all. He arches beneath Mihawk, an effort to grind up against him for even more contact between them.
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He can always try to wrestle Mihawk to swap positions, but good luck with that. He's really got him going now if the noise Mihawk made at the fist in his hair and how much harder he's biting is any indication to go by.
If he hasn't made his intention clear enough just yet, there is a hand between the hard lines of their bodies gripping their cocks jerking them off. He's inserting his coins one at a time before he enjoys his Shanks ride.
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"Not bad, Hawk Eyes..." His own hands slide from the other man's hair to drag blunt nails over the other's back.
"Maybe I should let you drag me into the bath more often..."
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"What makes you think I'll stay?" He murmurs quietly, brushing his thumb up the side and over a sensitive, twitching head. Nimble fingers drag down the length of the shaft, unusually gentle and yet Shanks could be forgiven for thinking that every little move is calculated and this game is rigged to make him squirm.
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His own hand is enthusiastically exploring every bit of Mihawk he can, over his back, slipping down to his ass to knead into firm muscle as he tries to rock his hips up, digging a heel into the ground. There's a huff and he looks up at the other man in amusement.
"Well, you haven't left yet..."
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"I could leave now if you insist." Would he simply up and walk away, even if he seems eager, rubbing and moving his hips more than suggestively while straddled down low in Shanks's lap? He's probably petty enough to do that.
But then again, he might not give Shanks too much time to insist upon anything if he's already reaching with his left hand behind his back to try and guide that hard cock inside. What can he say? He's very uptight. Of course he would make for a tight and intense fuck.
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"Don't you dare," Shanks answers, breathless. As if he could do anything more than try to hang on with hi single arm when Mihawk decides to do that. Lips part breathlessly, a barely contained noise tangling in his throat as he breaches almost too-tight heat. His head lulls back and his muscles tense and strain under the attention.
"You keep this up and I'll be very sad to see you go, Mihawk." For multiple reasons, really, but they can keep it about fucking.
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He won't leave right now though. He's rather-- busy. Teeth biting down on his lower lip muffles the discomfort and the slow-spreading but enjoyable burn. The hot flushes are all the more prominent on his pale skin, and everything from stifled moans to quiet whimpers echo particularly well off the bathroom tiles.
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The thought has him grinning as he tries to coax the other into not biting his own lip and into a proper kiss. "You do look gorgeous like this, Hawk Eyes."
Flushed and whimpering, and most importantly, on his cock without a complaint in the world.
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He probably doesn't look nearly as fierce as he would like, that intense stare tempered by the haze that's slowly sinking in and taking over his body. Knees red and raw, one hand on lukewarm tiles and the other fisted in creased wet towel, twisting and wringing as he tightens around Shanks in irregular little spasms.
"I look gorgeous-- all the time," he points out between noises he begrudgingly lets Shanks elicit from him. Dark curls drift down over his forehead, threatening to obscure those half-lidded golden orbs Shanks seems to enjoy peering into. (No, he's decided they shouldn't stop meeting like this.)
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There's a breathless chuckle as he slides his hand begrudgingly from around the other to between their bodies to wrap around his cock proper. "I can't argue that."
All pale skin and oozing confidence... who wouldn't be tempted to tear down that stoic demeanor to see what's underneath? No matter how dangerous it may be. "But especially when your guard is down a bit."
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Though there's nothing elegant about riding cock on the bathroom floor. And it's not easy to stay guarded with an eager hand spurring his hips into more action, callouses and soft muscle squeezing and rubbing along sensitive taut skin.
At some point he-- curses or gets closer to God or-- he can't quite remember, but he does look to be in agony when he cums harder than he cares to admit, hips staying unnaturally still as he makes a mess on Shanks's tight abdomen. Blunt nails leave white scratches on tan skin as they undo all those cleaning efforts from the bathtub earlier.
Oh well. Another excuse to scrub and touch and caress and crawl into a welcoming lap. And bite, of course. Like he hasn't spent half the night nibbling trails up the sides of Shanks's neck.
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Then there's a moment when all that facade breaks apart for Mihawk and his expression twists in pleasure and Shanks feels the proof of that spurting from his cock, making a mess of them both again. It's only when he's milked over last drop of it that his hand slows and stops, and his own mouth moves to leave breathless, sated kisses over pale skin.
One day, he should ask how he manages that, keeping the sun from kissing all that perfectly flawless skin when he spends so much time at sea. But it's not important right now, not as much as leaving a few of his own marks behind while he can.
"Are you going to clean me up again?" He teases after a moment.
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Maybe it's Maybelline?He shamelessly rests the weight of his body on Shanks - nobody thinks of him as a delicate, fragile flower, with two arms or one - and for a long minute, he lies still save for the light caressing of pale bony fingers along Shanks's remaining arm and his chest rising and falling with every laboured breath.
"Hnh. I suppose you need it..." And this time he might let Shanks soak until all their fingers prune - or the water goes cold. Whichever comes first.
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He turns his head to press a kiss somewhere along the sharp line of a jaw as his fingers trail up Mihawk's side affectionately. He wishes he had two hands to appreciate with, but well--
This works just as well. "And whose fault is that?"
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He slowly pushes himself up to his hands and knees, eyes roaming down the length of Shanks's battered and bruised, scarred and abused body. He really ought to take better care of himself.
"I'm climbing back in," Mihawk announces after a moment. "Enjoy the floor."
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Fine. He uses his good hand to push himself up. Maybe he wouldn't be bruised and battered if a certain swordsman quit biting and grabbing... But that's neither here, nor there.
Now he's grimacing as he sinks into the water. "Cold, cold! Warm it back up!"
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