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!"
He can't possibly blame Mihawk for every single blemish on his skin. Most of them were already there before Mihawk so much as laid a finger on Shanks.
"And how am I supposed to do that? Wave a magic wand?" Mihawk asks dryly. Of course he's cold too but he's not complaining. He gropes around the floor of the tub and twirls the metal chain around his finger before pulling the plug to let the cold water drain. The water was dirty anyway especially after they reentered the tub. At least now he gets to refill it slowly with water just slightly too hot so it'll be perfect when it cools down in a few minutes, and they can enjoy the steam and the fresh soak for a little while before one of them forces the other to get out.
"are you equally demanding with your crew or do you save your whinging especially for me?"
Maybe not all of them, but certainly a sizeable number of them have been left behind by sharp teeth and nails digging into his back in the throes of passion. When the water starts to drain, he starts to push himself in against Mihawk to siphon some of his body heat.
It'll be cold until the tub is refilled after all.
"I'm not. Whinging." He lifts his hand to brush along Mihawk's jaw, scratching fingertips against that beard -- half to annoy, half to touch.
Yes he's noticed that Shanks, since he climbed in after this time, hasn't taken up his spot on the other end of the tub. No, he's come right up close and seems rather insistent on snuggling. Disgusting.
The things he has to put up with! The dull, sweet aching in his legs. The snuggling. The touching. It's frankly outrageous.
"Look." Mihawk kicks a little at the direction of the tap, where steaming water is gushing out and slowly filling the tub back up a half-inch at a time. "You won't be cold much longer, alright?" he promises.
"Now do I have to clean you up again?" he laments, stopping just short of huffing out an audible sigh, reaching over the other side of the tub for a clean washcloth to pluck from the top of the pile. He's so put out, Shanks. Look at all this work he has to do every time he shows up.
If it were that disgusting, Mihawk wouldn't be tolerating it, would he? There aren't swats or persistent pushes to get Shanks to move away. Most wouldn't dare to do this, but Shanks hasn't ever been one to live in fear.
"So you're right," he answers, watching the water fill. But he seems rather content where he is, stealing Hawk Eyes' body heat.
"Well, if you would be so kind as to lend me a hand, perhaps I'll show my gratitude in a moment..."
Have swats ever worked on Shanks? Just asking out of sheer curiosity.
"One day you'll find these hand jokes to be as tacky and nonsensical as I do," Mihawk remarks dryly as he tries his best to wipe Shanks down. Not easy to reach everywhere he needs to reach and see what he's doing but he tries to be semi-methodical at least, rubbing over the same patch of skin a couple times just to be sure he's got as much of Shanks everywhere as he can.
"You have a hard time with this, do you?" Mihawk doesn't believe it for a second. Other tasks, maybe. But bathing and flirting, or whatever it is Shanks thinks he's doing? Hardly.
"Hmm. You might." Far be it from him to call Shanks a liar to his face. Especially when his face is so close. Maybe Shanks didn't take these things into account before he tried to make his point, but he would have figured something out if he genuinely couldn't manage.
Or, you know. Just decide to never have another bath ever again. If it's too difficult to exist as anything more than a drunk, filthy animal.
"If you aren't lying, I'd better do a proper job then." Complete with washing those fiery red locks and working out the knots and tangles very gently, throwing in a scalp massage for free even.
He can manage just fine, and maybe he is something of a liar about many things, but no need to bring that up here. Not right now. Right now, he's relishing in the contact, tipping back against the fingers in his hair with a contented noise, eyes closing.
"And you're doing such a good job," he answers.
Maybe they won't end up making another mess before they get out of here, but that doesn't mean Shanks won't let his fingers trail where he can reach over Mihawk in return, fingers sliding up his thighs and anywhere else he can comfortably reach.
This is oddly nice, in a way that while, not uncomfortable, does make Mihawk reflect on all the time he spends alone. He couldn't tolerate company for too long, especially after being so used to getting his own way all this time without needing to compromise or put up with someone else's bullshit.
But every so often, during quiet times like these, he thinks making these pit stops every once in a while isn't so bad. He nudges at Shanks's temple with his nose gently and continues petting his hair.
"If you fall asleep, I'm letting you drown," he jokes quietly. Even though they both know he'll drag him out of the tub, dry him up as best he can and tuck him into bed. 50/50 though on whether he's still there by the time Shanks wakes up, if he does fall asleep, that ungrateful, lazy bastard.
Perhaps not constantly, no. At heart, they're both pirates and that does mean a certain amount of ships passing in the night, doesn't it? And Shanks' natural laziness, the evasive way he hides his issues behind smiles and laughs would undoubtedly wear on Mihawk in ways that would become less attractive with the passing of time.
But the moments they do steal for themselves? Are incredibly worth it, in Shanks' opinion. The way those fingers work through his hair, the nudging. He even huffs out a laugh at that joke.
"You wouldn't dare. It would be too underwhelming for you." He cracks open an eye. "And besides, who would you have nights like these with then?"
"Anyone who has known you longer than five minutes would figure that it isn't an unnatural way for you to go. Except I would be turning your water-bloated corpse in for a small fortune, of course." Because, you know, Mihawk is so shamelessly desperate for berry, and he couldn't care less about his reputation; drowning is as good of a way as killing anyone as using his sword in a fair fight.
"Suppose I'll be alone in my own bathtub, enjoying the space and the time to tend to my own hair," Mihawk remarks airily, trying to sound above it all like he wouldn't care if Shanks really did get so shitfaced one day he drowned in a silly bathtub.
"It's not that awful you know, being alone." Although, it would be a challenge to man a ship alone with one arm, even if it is a small boat.
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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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"And how am I supposed to do that? Wave a magic wand?" Mihawk asks dryly. Of course he's cold too but he's not complaining. He gropes around the floor of the tub and twirls the metal chain around his finger before pulling the plug to let the cold water drain. The water was dirty anyway especially after they reentered the tub. At least now he gets to refill it slowly with water just slightly too hot so it'll be perfect when it cools down in a few minutes, and they can enjoy the steam and the fresh soak for a little while before one of them forces the other to get out.
"are you equally demanding with your crew or do you save your whinging especially for me?"
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It'll be cold until the tub is refilled after all.
"I'm not. Whinging." He lifts his hand to brush along Mihawk's jaw, scratching fingertips against that beard -- half to annoy, half to touch.
"But you dragged me in here and you got me cold."
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The things he has to put up with! The dull, sweet aching in his legs. The snuggling. The touching. It's frankly outrageous.
"Look." Mihawk kicks a little at the direction of the tap, where steaming water is gushing out and slowly filling the tub back up a half-inch at a time. "You won't be cold much longer, alright?" he promises.
"Now do I have to clean you up again?" he laments, stopping just short of huffing out an audible sigh, reaching over the other side of the tub for a clean washcloth to pluck from the top of the pile. He's so put out, Shanks. Look at all this work he has to do every time he shows up.
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"So you're right," he answers, watching the water fill. But he seems rather content where he is, stealing Hawk Eyes' body heat.
"Well, if you would be so kind as to lend me a hand, perhaps I'll show my gratitude in a moment..."
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"One day you'll find these hand jokes to be as tacky and nonsensical as I do," Mihawk remarks dryly as he tries his best to wipe Shanks down. Not easy to reach everywhere he needs to reach and see what he's doing but he tries to be semi-methodical at least, rubbing over the same patch of skin a couple times just to be sure he's got as much of Shanks everywhere as he can.
"You have a hard time with this, do you?" Mihawk doesn't believe it for a second. Other tasks, maybe. But bathing and flirting, or whatever it is Shanks thinks he's doing? Hardly.
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"Lighten up, Hawk Eyes," he starts. "Life's no fun if you spend it wallowing in what can't be changed. Is it?"
He sighs under the attention, tipping his head back as he just enjoys-- and then that question has him giving a sly look. "Would I lie?"
Yes, he absolutely would.
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Or, you know. Just decide to never have another bath ever again. If it's too difficult to exist as anything more than a drunk, filthy animal.
"If you aren't lying, I'd better do a proper job then." Complete with washing those fiery red locks and working out the knots and tangles very gently, throwing in a scalp massage for free even.
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"And you're doing such a good job," he answers.
Maybe they won't end up making another mess before they get out of here, but that doesn't mean Shanks won't let his fingers trail where he can reach over Mihawk in return, fingers sliding up his thighs and anywhere else he can comfortably reach.
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But every so often, during quiet times like these, he thinks making these pit stops every once in a while isn't so bad. He nudges at Shanks's temple with his nose gently and continues petting his hair.
"If you fall asleep, I'm letting you drown," he jokes quietly. Even though they both know he'll drag him out of the tub, dry him up as best he can and tuck him into bed. 50/50 though on whether he's still there by the time Shanks wakes up, if he does fall asleep, that ungrateful, lazy bastard.
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But the moments they do steal for themselves? Are incredibly worth it, in Shanks' opinion. The way those fingers work through his hair, the nudging. He even huffs out a laugh at that joke.
"You wouldn't dare. It would be too underwhelming for you." He cracks open an eye. "And besides, who would you have nights like these with then?"
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"Suppose I'll be alone in my own bathtub, enjoying the space and the time to tend to my own hair," Mihawk remarks airily, trying to sound above it all like he wouldn't care if Shanks really did get so shitfaced one day he drowned in a silly bathtub.
"It's not that awful you know, being alone." Although, it would be a challenge to man a ship alone with one arm, even if it is a small boat.
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