Overboard With His Load

The Atlantic at two in the morning had a way of making a man feel like the last living thing on earth. Benedict, twenty-eight, thick through the shoulders from six years of hauling line and swinging cargo hooks, stood his watch at the starboard rail and let the wind cut the sweat off his neck. The moon sat fat and white over the swells, painting a road of light that ran all the way to the horizon and nowhere else. Somewhere below, the rest of the crew slept. The engine thumped like a slow heart. Up here it was only him, the steel, and the man who had been not looking at him for the better part of an hour.

Emmett came up the ladder with two mugs and the careful walk of a man who knew every wet plate on this deck by heart. Thirty-five, captain's mate on the books and a deckhand in every way that mattered when the weather turned, he was built like the ship itself: broad, weathered, nothing on him that hadn't earned its place. Salt had gone early into his beard. His coveralls were shoved down and knotted at his waist, undershirt stuck to his chest. He set a mug on the rail without quite meeting Benedict's eyes.

"Coffee's bitter," he said. "Galley's out of anything that tastes like a decision."

"Story of the crossing." Benedict took it anyway. Their fingers didn't touch. That was the whole problem, and had been since Norfolk, since the night Emmett had caught him staring in the companionway and hadn't told him to knock it off. Weeks of that. Shoulders brushing in narrow passages. Emmett's voice going low when he gave an order Benedict was already moving to obey. Looks that lasted one second too long and then got put away like contraband.

"Quiet night," Emmett said.

"Too quiet." Benedict drank, made a face, and let his eyes travel, slow and unashamed, from Emmett's throat to the open vee of his shirt to the heavy shape of him under the tied coveralls. "You keep standing there like that, I'm gonna start thinking you want an audience."

Emmett's mouth twitched. "You volunteering?"

"I've been volunteering since you told me to coil that line nicer and looked at my hands like you had plans for them." Benedict set the mug down. The moon caught the sweat at Emmett's collarbone. "You gonna keep pretending you don't notice, or you gonna do something about it before we hit weather and lose our nerve?"

The older man went still. Wind moved over the deck. Then Emmett turned, and the look he gave Benedict was nothing like the careful one he'd been wearing. It was hungry. It had teeth.

"I've noticed," Emmett said, rough. "Every watch. Every time you bend over a cleat in those pants. I've been walking around half hard and telling myself a captain's mate doesn't fuck the deckhand on his own ship."

"Both of us are deckhands when the sun's down and the old man's asleep," Benedict said. "And I've been waiting for you to quit being polite and make the goddamn move."

Emmett set his mug beside Benedict's. The two of them stood a foot apart, close enough that Benedict could smell coffee and soap and the clean salt of the man's skin. Emmett's hand came up, slow enough to refuse, and settled on the back of Benedict's neck. Warm. Sure.

"Tell me no and I walk," Emmett said.

"I'm not telling you no." Benedict's voice had dropped into his chest. "I'm telling you I've wanted your cock in my mouth since the second day out. So either kiss me or get off my watch."

Emmett kissed him.

It wasn't careful. It was a collision, mouths open, Emmett's beard scraping, Benedict grabbing two fistfuls of that damp undershirt and hauling him in until their chests hit. Emmett tasted like bad coffee and want. His tongue pushed in and Benedict met it, groaning into the kiss, already rocking forward so the thick ridge of his cock dragged against Emmett's thigh. Emmett made a sound that wasn't a word and shoved him back against the rail, one hand fisted in Benedict's hair, the other palming his ass through his work pants and squeezing hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck," Benedict gasped against his mouth. "Yeah. Like that."

"You feel that?" Emmett ground against him, slow and mean, letting Benedict feel how hard he was, how heavy. "That's what you've been walking past for three weeks. I've been leaking in my shorts every time you laughed at something I said."

"Then stop talking and use me." Benedict bit his lower lip, sucked it, let it go. His own cock was a steel bar in his pants, the head already wet, every grind sending a jolt up his spine. He got a hand between them and cupped Emmett through the coveralls, squeezing the fat length of him, thumb rubbing where the head strained the cloth. Emmett's hips jerked. "Christ, you're thick. I knew you would be. I want it. All of it. Out here. Now."

"Anyone comes up that ladder—"

"They won't." Benedict yanked the knot at Emmett's waist. The coveralls sagged. He shoved a hand inside, under the waistband of plain cotton shorts, and wrapped his fingers around bare, hot cock. Emmett hissed and thrust into the grip. "Shift change isn't for two hours. It's you and me and the moon. So are you gonna fuck me, or do I have to beg?"

"You can beg," Emmett said, and kissed him again, filthier, tongue fucking his mouth while Benedict stroked him, spreading the slick at the tip down the shaft. "But you're gonna do it on your knees first."

Benedict didn't need to be told twice. He dropped. The deck was cold through his pants. The rail was at Emmett's back, moonlight on his stomach, and when Benedict dragged the shorts down, Emmett's cock sprang free, thick and flushed, a vein standing along the underside, the head shining. Benedict stared at it for one hungry second, then opened his mouth and took him in.

He didn't tease. He swallowed him down until his lips met the base and his throat flexed around the head, eyes watering, nose buried in coarse hair that smelled like soap and man. Emmett swore, both hands flying to Benedict's skull, not forcing, just holding on like the ship had pitched. Benedict pulled off with a wet sound, spit shining on his chin, and looked up.

"Fuck my throat," he said. "I can take it. I want it sloppy."

Emmett's jaw worked. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. Use me."

Emmett did. He fed his cock back between Benedict's lips and started to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper, the head bumping the back of Benedict's throat and sliding past when Benedict relaxed and moaned around him. Spit ran down Benedict's chin and onto Emmett's balls. The sound was obscene over the wind: wet, choked, eager. Benedict worked his tongue along the underside on every withdraw, hollowed his cheeks, let Emmett hold his head and fuck his mouth like it was a hole that had been waiting. His own cock throbbed untouched, a dark spot spreading on the front of his pants.

"Look at you," Emmett rasped. "Pretty mouth stuffed full. Drooling on my cock like you were made for it. That's it. Take it. Greedy little slut. You've been walking around this deck asking for exactly this."

Benedict moaned and took him deeper, throat clicking, tears at the corners of his eyes from the effort and the thrill of it. He loved the degradation when it came from this man, loved the way Emmett's voice went wrecked around the words. He pulled off gasping, strings of spit connecting his lips to the shining head, and licked them away.

"Rail," he said, hoarse. "I want you in me. Raw. Right now. I'm clean, I haven't been with anybody this voyage, and I don't want anything between us. You good?"

"Clean. Same." Emmett hauled him up by the shirt and kissed the taste of himself off Benedict's mouth. "Turn around. Pants down. Hands on the rail. And if you want me to stop, you say stop. Otherwise I'm not stopping until I've ruined you."

"Don't you dare stop."

Benedict spun, shoved his pants and shorts to his thighs, and bent over the rail. The night air hit his bare ass. He spread his feet as far as the bunched cloth allowed and reached back, gripping one cheek, opening himself. His hole clenched on nothing. He was so hard it hurt, cock hanging heavy, dripping onto the deck.

Emmett spat into his palm, slicked himself, and pressed two wet fingers against Benedict's hole, rubbing, then pushing in. Benedict bore down and took them with a broken sound, forehead dropping to his forearm on the rail. Emmett worked him open fast and filthy, scissoring, curling, until Benedict was pushing back and cursing.

"Enough. Get in me."

The fingers left. The blunt head of Emmett's cock replaced them, pressing, demanding. Benedict breathed out and pushed back, and the head popped inside, thick enough to burn in the best way. Emmett sank in by inches, one hand locked on Benedict's hip, the other spread between his shoulder blades, holding him down against the rail. When he bottomed out, both of them went still, shaking.

"Tight," Emmett gritted. "Fuck, you're tight. You feel that? All of me. Stuffed full of my cock like you begged for."

"Move," Benedict snarled. "Pound me. I didn't bend over so you could be gentle."

Emmett pulled back and slammed home. The rail shuddered. Benedict's cry went out over the water and died in the wind. Emmett set a brutal pace, hips snapping, balls slapping Benedict's ass, each stroke driving deep enough that Benedict saw white behind his eyes. The older man's grip on his hips was iron. There would be marks. Benedict wanted the marks. He braced and took it, shoving back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of it filthy and perfect under the moon.

"Harder," he panted. "Come on. Fuck me like you mean it. Like you've been thinking about wrecking this ass since Norfolk."

"I have." Emmett leaned over him, chest to his back, and bit the meat of his shoulder through the shirt. His cock drove in at a new angle and Benedict's knees nearly went. "Thought about bending you over the capstan. Thought about shutting you up with my fingers in your mouth while I split you open. You take it so good. Listen to you. Moaning like a bitch in heat. My bitch. Say it."

"Yours," Benedict gasped, and meant it for the length of this watch, for the length of this cock rearranging him. "Your hole. Your slut. Fuck, right there, don't stop, don't you stop—"

Emmett didn't. He hammered that spot until Benedict was shaking, cock swinging, untouched and leaking a steady string onto the deck plates. Then Emmett pulled out all at once. Benedict whimpered at the emptiness.

"Turn around," Emmett ordered. "I want your face when I fuck you. I want to see what I do to you."

Benedict turned, pants tangled at his knees, and Emmett lifted one of his thighs, hooked it up, and pushed back in standing, face to face, the rail cold at Benedict's spine. The new angle was devastating. Emmett filled him to the root and stayed there a second, foreheads touching, both of them breathing like they'd run the length of the ship. Then he started to thrust again, deep and grinding, one hand under Benedict's thigh, the other wrapped around Benedict's cock at last.

"Oh fuck," Benedict choked. "Yes. Stroke it. Look at me."

Emmett looked. His eyes were blown dark, sweat on his brow, mouth open. He fucked up into Benedict and worked his fist in the same rhythm, thumb smearing precome over the head. Their mouths met and broke and met again, more teeth than kiss, filthy words spilling between them.

"Gonna come all over you," Emmett said. "Chest. Face. I want you wearing it. I want you walking below with my load drying on your skin so you remember who put it there."

"Do it." Benedict clenched around him, deliberate, and watched Emmett's control fray. "Paint me. I've been a good hole. Give me what I earned. Come on, old man. Unload. I want to taste it after. I want it in my mouth."

That did it. Emmett pulled out with a ragged curse, fist flying on his own cock, the other hand still braced on Benedict's chest. Three strokes and he broke. The first rope hit Benedict's throat, hot and thick. The second striped his chest, catching on a nipple. Emmett groaned like he was dying and aimed higher, and the next heavy spurts landed across Benedict's cheek, his open mouth, his tongue. It kept coming, ropey and endless, dripping off his jaw, smeared through the stubble when Emmett's spent cock twitched and gave up one last pulse onto his collarbone.

Benedict held still and took it, eyes half shut, chest heaving, his own orgasm ripped out of him a second later by Emmett's hand. He came hard, striping Emmett's wrist and his own stomach, hole clenching on nothing, a broken shout lost in the wind.

They stayed like that, wrecked, the moon indifferent above them.

Benedict caught his breath in pieces. Emmett's cock hung spent and shining, still half hard, come threading from the tip. Benedict reached for it. He wrapped his fingers around the slick shaft and used it like a brush, dragging the head through the mess on his chest, gathering it, then bringing it up to his mouth. He licked the head clean, slow, eyes on Emmett, then sucked the softening cock between his lips and moaned at the taste of both of them. When he pulled off, he stood, come still wet on his face, and kissed Emmett deep, open-mouthed, sharing it, letting the older man taste what he'd done.

Emmett kissed him back like a man starved, one hand cupping the messy side of Benedict's jaw, thumb stroking through his own spend. They broke apart grinning, rough and satisfied, foreheads together, laughing once under their breath like idiots who'd gotten away with something.

"Below," Benedict said, hauling his pants up without bothering to wipe his chest. "My bunk's closer. Shift's got time. Round two, I want you on your back. I want to ride you until you can't remember your own name."

"Lead the way," Emmett said, and meant it.

They went down the ladder together, shoulders knocking, already arguing in low voices about who got to come second. At the bottom Benedict glanced back up at the moonlit rail, at the two forgotten mugs, and smiled with Emmett's taste still on his tongue.

The relief watch had been standing in the shadow of the funnel the entire time, and he had not looked away once.