Autumn Chill

Ian and Lluw fuck as it rains down upon them.

Photo by Josh Sorenson via Pexels.

Rain is falling heavily outside, and Lluw can hear it, hear the water from above meeting the churning waters below, and feel the ship swaying beneath them. The bed is bolted and fastened to the floor at every post, much like the rest of the furniture in Ian’s rooms, and the rest of the furniture aboard.

Lluw is anchored, after a fashion, himself.

His palms pressed down against Ian’s chest, he rocks himself down, and Ian groans quietly into the pillows, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other gripping at the meat of Lluw’s side, thumb pressed into a roll of fat and gripping it to give himself purchase. It feels nice — a little ticklish, when he does this sort of thing too softly, but very nice, when it’s hard, but not hard enough to bruise.

Ian’s cock is spearing Lluw’s cunt open, and neither of them are even really thrusting, the two of them barely moving at all — straddling the captain’s thighs the way that he is, his knees tight in against Ian’s chest, the majority of the work is being done for them by the shift and movement of the ship with each swell.

Sweat gleams on Lluw’s skin and Ian’s, making Lluw look like wet porcelain under moonlight and making Ian look like the leather-tanned sailor he remains, even now, long after his reluctant…