Getting Old

Erotic short. Two old men sleepy on a pirate ship.

Cis M/M, rated E, 1k. Sleepy sex, intercrural, teasing, a bit of banter, mostly just two old men being tired and achy together!

The old man is passed right out, sprawled naked on his belly in his bunk, and Adal rolls his shoulders as he steps inside and lets the door drop closed behind him. He’d been on since before dawn, Adal is pretty sure — one of the boys had been on watch and had called for the surgeon after old Red had had another funny turn. It’s his heart, Adal is pretty sure, and once they next make port somewhere Dixon is going to cash out his shares and let him loose.

Red Smith is the oldest man on the ship at fifty-nine — when he’s gone, Dixon will be the oldest man aboard by a decade.

Adal doesn’t even think he looks particularly good for it — looking at Dixon and Red side-by-side, even with the sorry state of Red’s heart, you’d be forgiven for thinking that they were the same age, or even that Dixon was the older man between them. That didn’t particularly bother Adal — he’s the wrong side of forty himself, and he’s already planning to follow Dixon ashore whenever he decides to cash out himself.

He doesn’t want to do so, Adal knows that, but the choice is gonna be made for him soon enough — he’s stiff and pained whenever a storm comes around or whenever they have a heavy day with a lot of labour. So is Adal, for that matter.

Moving forward, he strips off his shirt and dropped his trousers, kicking them off before he climbed up onto the bed, his hands resting either side of Dixon’s waist before he came to straddle the upper part of his thighs and his arse.

“You awake?” he asks, and Dixon groans.

“Fuck off,” he says sleepily, voice muffled by the cushions.

“You sure?” asks Adal, slowly grinding his cock against Dixon’s arse cheeks, feeling the heat of his body, feeling him relax further into the bed. Dixon’s answering moan is something Adal has been waiting for all day, has been fucking anticipating — it ekes under his skin and makes him feel warm and tingly, his cock giving a favourable little jerk at the sound.

Dixon’s head sinks further into his beaten-up pillow, and at the same time, his thighs spread just a little wider, inviting Adal between them, but Adal doesn’t take him up on it right away. He shoves Dixon’s buttocks closer together, insinuating between them and squeezing himself between their swells — it’s impossible not to sigh at the wonderful heat and pressure of them, the tight grip he creates around his cock, pressure against his head and about the shaft as he grinds.

He just takes his time for a few minutes, is leisurely about taking his enjoyment, but he can feel Dixon sleepily fidgeting — the old man really still isn’t awake just yet, but Adal knows how much he likes to embrace the sleepiness of it, how he likes to stay in that filmy place between dreaming and waking where the sensations are so much more intense and less concrete, where all of it goes right into him unadulterated, uninterrupted by thoughts of how the day’s gone or how tomorrow will go. He watches the signs of Dixon getting more frustrated, of Dixon’s desire to be really touched fighting with his desire to stay lax and sleepy, watches his shoulders grow stiffer and tighter, feels his hips rock down harder against the bedroll as he tries for more stimulation, hears his breathing get heavier, more grunts and quiet, bitten-back sounds showing through.

When he hears Dixon sharply inhale, gearing up to snap at him, he moves the hand he’s slicked up around his cock, douses some oil over it, prods against the pucker of Dixon’s hole in the dark, and presses forward.

He almost misses, and that would be funny in itself, because sometimes it really is nice to frustrate Dixon just for the sake of it, to wind him up and enjoy the ensuing bite, but he catches himself before he nudges back up between his cheeks again, pushes down and sinks inside, feels Dixon open up for him.

The noise Dixon makes out is low and eager and wanting, a muffled howl as he plants his knees against the bed, spreads his thighs wider, grabs at the pillow.

“That good?” asks Adal, laughing, but it’s all he can manage to say as he focuses on the tight heat of Dixon around him, feels him clench and squeeze to welcome Adal inside, pull him in tighter. He can’t bear to pull back from it once he’s buried inside, gives slow rocks of his hips without pulling out more than a bit each time, and at the same time he pins Dixon’s thighs in with his knees, gripping his hips.

It’s slow, slow and luxurious and full of heat, and the whole time Dixon’s letting out the most incredible noises, noises Adal could come from alone, touching himself in the other bunk — he used to, before, before he realised that Dixon was open to it, that he wasn’t just fisting his cock when he touched himself, but fingering himself as well.

He knows when Dixon comes because he suddenly goes limp and flattens out on the bed, feels it in the clench of his arse too, the flutter and squeeze of his muscles around him, and then Adal speeds up a bit, rocks his hips as much as he wants and licks and noses at Dixon’s shoulders, grabs and squeezes at him, buries himself in him as much as he can.

He comes with a sigh, going loose-limbed and lax on top of Dixon, and Dixon chuckles, reaches back and clumsily pats his upper arm.

“You’re getting old,” he murmurs.

“You’re setting off cannons in a glass house,” retorts Adal, and Dixon’s laugh is low and crooning, slides off into a sigh.

“Aye, that I am,” he agrees. “Let us out of this wet patch, and let’s the both of us take a piss.”

“Together? So romantic,” Adal says, and Dixon’s slap against his thigh is gentle and affectionate, makes his heart warm more than it heats the skin.