The Georg Stage dipped, sails akimbo, snapping freely in the wind. Waterlogged men slid across the roiling deck, unable to hang on and finish tying the canvases down, leaving the ship at the mercy of the wind and rain as much as the pounding waves.
Fingers stiff and numb with cold, Viggo held tight to the rigging, yanking a hastily-tied reef knot into place. The folds bucked against him, borne aloft by trapped air, the sheet too much for one lone man to handle. A grim smile stretched and tightened across his jaw just as the knot slipped and spilled, collapsing under his hands. He felt his lips move, knew he was shouting a curse to the skies, but the words were lost to the wind, tugged away from him, shredded against the sea.
He reached for the rope, fluttering just out of arm's length, and as he gripped it -- the twisting fibres rough against his palm -- he saw a wave rise above the deck, uncurling like a giant elemental maw poised to swallow them all. Its shadow darkened everything in its path, making the black night blacker, the ship itself a tiny, insignificant speck in a universe of cruel indifference. Viggo cringed as the wave descended, dug blunt and broken nails into rope and canvas alike, and as it broke above him, around him, he felt himself lifted from the mast, tossed like a doll against the railing, tipping and tumbling into the ocean below.
Faintly, he could hear the men shouting, ribbons of human sound barely struggling to the surface, snarled in the rush and thunder of the storm. He was sure he heard someone cry, "Bosun," knew his loss had been seen, but as he opened his mouth to call out, water rushed in, choking him, stopping up his nose and ears, blinding him beyond all sense.
As he sank below the waves, he felt something alarmingly alive brush against his side, caught sight of a dim triangular outline not more than a foot away. His last thought before unconsciousness, before the sea took him, was a feeble hope that he'd be senseless when the sharks finally sank their teeth deep into his skin.
***
The first thing he became aware of was the rasp and prickle of tiny bristles across the small of his back. He tensed, fearing the worst; perhaps an urchin, spines poised to puncture at the slightest provocation. Yet the feeling went on without a hint of pain, and slowly, Viggo relaxed, certain the creature would pass him by, drifting on to find itself a more excitable victim.
Relieved, he drew a breath, half-expecting a rush of fluid and a return to the deep, but was shocked when his lungs filled with cool, salty air. The tang of brine lay thick on his tongue, yet it no longer choked him, the liquid gag long gone. He paused, taking mental stock of his situation. Amazingly, he had not drowned, not if the ache of his muscles could be trusted, the sharp pang and throb of his head and arm, the crackle and stretch of his lips as he carefully worked his mouth. There was sand beneath his toes; sand stuck between his fingers, in his hair, tickling his eyelashes. Yet as he cautiously shifted, testing out the extent of the damage done by the storm, he realized his torso and hips lay on a soft surface, warmly furred and almost the consistency of oilskin. A small voice in the back of his mind noted that he'd find it comfortable if he wasn't so battered and bewildered by what had happened and where he had found himself.
The prickling continued, and Viggo was forced to admit it could be no urchin. Not on dry land. Not on this dry land, which a quick glance around confirmed was a calm, quiet beach, bordered on three sides by rocks and cliffs. The grey light hinted at dawn, and after a quick calculation, Viggo was sure he'd been unconscious for six hours or more. Perhaps he'd washed up here, one more piece of flotsam caught in the current and vomited ashore. Perhaps one of the Saints had taken pity on him. He's always had a soft spot for St. Elmo, and maybe--
A hand that was not his own cupped the curve of his ass, making him jump. How was it he had not noticed his own nakedness? Surely he hadn't lost his clothes in the storm, or torn them off in a fit of madness before he'd collapsed on the sand? His head swam, no doubt still suffering the aftereffects of being buffeted and nearly drowned in the sea, and for a moment he was certain all he was feeling was nothing more than a hallucination brought on as the Angel of Death came close, its wings sweeping over him, moments away from gathering him up and taking him on to his eternal punishment.
But it was fingers that felt all too human that now brushed between his cheeks, the touch almost teasing; suddenly, he became hyper-aware of his own skin, uncomfortable within it, unable to command exhausted muscles into movement. The hand roamed freely, lightly, stroking across the small of his back, up his spine, slowly easing the way for a body to stretch against him, pinning him to the pelt below. It was as heavy as a man, as naked as Viggo himself, but the weight between its legs pressed against Viggo's hip, thick and firm and full of promise.
Promise Viggo wasn't sure he wanted fulfilled.
As hand and body settled against his shoulders, he felt the warm exhale of breath against his ear; sweetly scented, clear and fresh, a tang of something other hinting at a host of secrets held beneath the waves.
The fingers slid down his arms, taking the time to trace the edges of a binding Viggo had only glimpsed. He forced himself to look now, catching sight of lightly bronzed skin against what appeared to be lengths of seaweed wrapped around his arm, tied off in a perfect surgeon's knot.
"W-what?" he murmured, unable to make his throat manage more, but in exchange for this minor vocal struggle he was greeted with little more than a soft susurration of breath, the sound soothing, but devoid of much more meaning. The body above him slid back down, two hands now pressing between his thighs, parting them as the stranger settled between.
A brush of lips made him whimper, the scrape of teeth a shock after such tenderness. Blunt fingers pressed into his flesh, parting his cheeks, and before he could do more than sigh, he felt the first firm lick opening him up. He gasped, caught between shock and curiosity, the sensation nothing like the quick relief offered between sailors: a helpful hand moving over his prick, squeezing and milking until he spilled and not an instant longer, one of many furtive moments below decks, away from prying eyes. No, this touch was exquisitely slow, expertly confident, and Viggo found it impossible not to sink into the sensation.
Before long he was shifting underneath the careful onslaught of tongue and teeth, his cock hardening against his belly, the firming flesh tickled by the hairs of the fur beneath. Dimly, he registered the faintest hint of shame as he found himself enjoying the insistent invasion, pressing back into gentle thrusts of tongue, heedless of the fingers keeping him wide and exposed.
He sighed when the attentions simply stopped with no warning, his muscles clenching around nothing, surprised at how empty he felt. When the weight of the other body came down on his back, he groaned in relief, struggling to part his thighs a little more. He raised his hips in the air, welcoming the blunt head that pressed against him with a fervour that quickened his blood. Sand sifted through his fingers, slipping away from him as his hands curled, as a cock, hard and heavy and persistent, slid past what little resistance remained, stretching him almost to the point of pain. He swallowed the cry that threatened, trapping it behind gritted teeth; he knew that some sailors had a taste for fucking as one would with a woman, but he had never sunk to such base levels outside of his darker dreams.
The pain spiked, tiny sparks of light exploding in his field of vision, his chest tightening, squeezing out all but the tiniest of breaths. Yet curiously, with the pain came a shuddering pleasure, wave upon wave, cresting and breaking, washing away all sense but need. Viggo gasped, rocking back, and was rewarded with a low growl and a roll of hips, driving the cock deeper, opening him up just that much more. He reached behind himself, twisting slightly, wanting to gain a little purchase and reassurance that man, not beast, rutted with him. He was rewarded even as he was punished, feeling solid muscle slide against his palms as strong hands gripped his wrists, drew them above his head, pinning them there. He struggled, the weakness of his body as much an obstacle as the power of the man above, and quickly realized he was going nowhere that his captor didn't wish.
Even as he shivered, the cock slid slowly out of him, and for a brief moment he feared it would slip free, leaving him hard and wanting. There was a pause, and Viggo realized he was holding his breath.
The first thrust was brutally hard, making him cry out even as he tightened around it. The rhythm was anything but gentle, firm thrusts that gave and took in equal measure. Viggo's vision swam; his skin hot, his prick aching, his body responding in ways he wouldn't have believed possible. He felt his balls tighten, knew that he was moments away from coming when a sharper pain invaded the fog that had descended in his mind.
He screamed, the sound bouncing off water and stone, echoing back to him. Whoever was screwing him had bitten down, teeth pressing deep into Viggo's shoulder even as the man kept his hips moving. In. Out. In. Out. Viggo's shoulder burned, the bitemark receding into a dull ache as the angle of the invading cock shifted, brushing something inside that made stars reel before Viggo's eyes. For one strange moment, he wondered if he could navigate by them, find his way back to this spot over and over.
As the stars burst behind his eyelids again, the same sweet spot touched and retouched with each new thrust, Viggo felt his muscles clench tight, his whole body trembling, bucking as his hips snapped forward, rubbing his prick against the pelt, his come painting belly and fur alike. Breathless, Viggo rocked beneath a handful of thrusts, barely registering the bite that came to the nape of his neck as anything more than a tingle. He groaned as the other body shuddered, wishing this moment could go on and on even as he felt the man come.
He whimpered as the cock slid free, disappointment overriding the deepening ache in every inch of untouched skin, and without so much as a thought, he curled against the man that rolled off him, laid down beside him, chest heaving.
A powerful arm slipped around his shoulders, tugging him closer even as he was wrapped up, pressed between warm skin and fur.
For a long time Viggo simply lay there, luxuriating in the way his breathing slowed, the way sweat and come cooled and dried. The man at his side smelled of musk and greenery, a pleasing counterpoint to the gilt of his hair, the glow of his skin. His chest, limbs and groin were covered in an almost invisible down, something felt more than seen. His cock slept between his legs, but it was far too tempting for Viggo to leave alone, running his fingers up the shaft, delighting in the sluggish twitch and rumbling groan his touch elicited. If he could, Viggo would trap them both in amber, suspend them here so he would never have to leave; safe, sound, and satisfied.
Yet there was one thing that ate away at the edges of his consciousness, more so than how he had come here and what fortune had given him this creature. Those things were inconsequential against Viggo's growing need to dive into this man, know every curve of his body, every thought in his head. He was drunk on desire and something more, something that even now was taking hold, plumbing the depths of his soul.
Propping himself up on an elbow, privately pleased that he only winced a little, he looked down at the body below, and decided to begin with the small things.
"My name is Viggo," he paused, waiting for the courtesy to be returned, but his companion did little more than look at him, green eyes crinkling at the edges, sparkling like sea-glass.
"Viggo. I am called Viggo." He touched his chest, then brushed his fingers across the man's own, grazing a nipple and eliciting a satisfying shiver. "What do they call you?"
The man tilted his head to the side and smiled, but offered no reply. "Do you not have a name?" Viggo pressed. "I need to call you something." He furrowed his brow, confounded by the lengthening silence, seeking an answer in eyes that offered none. "If you won't tell me your name, I'll have to choose one for you." He cast about for anything that would suit this golden creature, sent by a God kinder than his own. His life had been given back to him, snatched from the waves, and this day was a precious gift; if it had not been for this man, he would have neither. A slow smile spread across his face, the name rolling off his tongue as if he had always known it. "Sean. My gift."
Even newly-named, Sean extended the same oblivious smile, but Viggo was satisfied. It fit this quiet, powerful man in a way no other name would. Viggo resettled against his Sean, his eyes growing heavy even as he watched his fingers trace along Sean's skin.
***
When he awoke, it was to the sound of seabirds calling. Their cries quickly turned to men's voices in his ears, and he became aware that he lay alone and unattended, naked and exposed on the sand. The pelt that had covered them both was gone, and with it, its owner. Yet warmth still lingered. It could not have been long past Sean leaving, but where had he gone? The beach was empty in either direction, save for a neat pile of his clothes, ragged shirt folded on top his breeches, belt coiled in the centre.
Viggo looked around, panic rising in his throat, tinting his bile with metallic fear, but there was no sign past his own spilled seed and the swathes of seaweed adorning his limbs that anyone save himself had come ashore.
"Hello! Hello, down there!" Someone had spotted him and was making his slow way down a winding path from cliff face to beach flats. Viggo scrambled to pull his breeches back on, not willing to be found less than decent and forced to brave more than the most basic explanations. Perhaps Sean wished not to be found by the inhabitants of this place. Perhaps if Viggo returned later, when the world was still and the water clear--
A flicker of movement in the bay caught his eye. He squinted against the rising sun, looking out into the blue, and was rewarded with the sight of a beast in the water. Viggo was almost certain that as he watched it, it watched him, bobbing in the waves, unnaturally still for something so wild.
The moment stretched out until Viggo was no longer sure how long he'd been standing there, toes digging progressively deeper into the sand, straining to see until his eyes streamed with tears. It wasn't until a short, stocky man came level with him that the spell was broken, the animal suddenly flipping its tail and disappearing into the sea. Recognition dawned. Ah. A seal.
"What are you doing down here? Do you know how difficult it is to reach this beach?" The words tumbled out in a rush of breath, the man doubling over and clutching his knees as he gasped. "Are you all right? How did you get here?"
A seal with a pelt of the same honeyed colour as Sean's hair.
"Are you all right, man?"
The same colour as the pelt he'd laid upon; that Sean had wrapped them both in as they drifted into sleep.
"Are you witless? Are you hearing me? What are you doing here?"
Yes, Viggo would be back, and before nightfall. And if Sean did not appear this night, then Viggo would return all the nights hence until he found him again.
Summary: Viggo, bosun of the Georg Stage, finds himself at the mercy of both fortune and the sea.
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: KinkChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2828 Read: 724
Published: 19 Aug 2009 Updated: 19 Aug 2009