Page 105 of Setting the Break

He pulls them out.

The emptiness is immediate and humiliating in how much he feels it. His hole clenches around nothing, slick and open and wanting, and oil drips down the inside of his thigh. He cannot look at Eskil when he nods. He tries. He gets as far as Eskil's mouth and then his gaze skitters away.

"Yes," he says, and it comes out small. "Yes. You can."

Eskil's exhale is shaky. He takes the oil from Indrie's unresisting hand and pours it generously over his own fingers, coating them until they gleam in the candlelight, and then he reaches behind Indrie with that same unhurried patience that has always undone him. His other hand stays on Indrie's hip, holding him steady.

The first touch of Eskil's fingers against his hole makes Indrie's whole body jolt. Eskil's fingers are thicker than his own, longer, calloused at the pads, and he does not push in at once. He rubs, slow, circling the rim, spreading oil over the tight muscle, pressing just enough to make Indrie feel how ready he already is and how much more Eskil means to make him. Indrie drops his forehead against Eskil's shoulder and breathes there, shaky, while Eskil works him from behind with a thoroughness that is almost clinical except for the way his breath has gone ragged against Indrie's ear.

"You look so good on top of me," Eskil murmurs. "Telling me what you want."

Indrie makes a wounded sound into his skin.

Eskil's first finger slides in to the knuckle, easy with the oil and the work Indrie has already done, and Indrie's hips twitch back onto it without his permission. Eskil groans, low, and adds a second almost immediately, pushing in slow and deep until Indrie can feel the stretch of both of them filling him, thicker than his own, the press of Eskil's knuckles against his rim. Eskil crooks them. He finds the place inside Indrie on the first try because of course he does, because he has mapped this body as carefully as Indrie has mapped his. Eskil rubs there in a firm, relentless circle that makes Indrie's mouth fall open against his shoulder and his cock jump between them, dripping onto Eskil's stomach.

"Eskil—"

"I know." Eskil's voice is wrecked and tender at once. He works his fingers in and out, twisting, spreading them, stretching Indrie open with a patience that has crossed over into cruelty. Oil squelches. Indrie can hear it, obscene, can feel it running down over Eskil's hand and dripping onto the sheets. "I want you ready. I want you so open you take me without hurting. I want you dripping before you even sit on me."

Indrie's legs have stopped taking orders. He tries to rock back onto Eskil's fingers and Eskil lets him, lets him fuck himself on them, and then he adds a third.

The stretch punches a cry out of Indrie. Three of Eskil's fingers is a different thing entirely from two of his own. The fullness is deep and almost too much, his rim burning around the girth of them. Eskil holds still inside him and waits, his other hand stroking slow circles on Indrie's hip, until Indrie's breathing evens and his body yields. Then Eskil starts to move them. In and out, slow at first, then deeper, scissoring him open, rubbing over that spot on every stroke until Indrie is panting against his neck and his cock is leaking a steady thread onto Eskil's abdomen and his hole is making filthy sounds around Eskil's fingers.

"That's it," Eskil says, almost to himself. "That's it. Open up for me. Fuck, Indrie, you're so tight still. You're going to feel so good around my cock."

Indrie cannot answer. His face is buried in Eskil's shoulder and every inch of his skin is burning, and he is rocking back onto Eskil's hand now with no rhythm left, just need, his hole working and fluttering around those fingers as they fuck into him. Eskil's thumb comes up and presses against his taint, rubbing, and Indrie sobs.

Eskil works him until he is loose. Until the slide of three fingers is easy and Indrie's rim is swollen and open and taking them without resistance. Until oil is dripping down the insides of Indrie's thighs in shining tracks and his hole closes on nothing the instant Eskil pulls his fingers free, greedy, fluttering, open.

Indrie lifts his head. He knows what he must look like. Flushed to the chest, mouth wet, eyes blown, trembling in Eskil's lap with his hole gaping and dripping. What is on Eskil's face is holy and obscene at once.

"You’re meant to be watching," Indrie manages to say, petulant.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eskil says, pressing a kiss to his brow, “I’m watching.”

Eskil pours more oil into Indrie's palm because Indrie's hands are shaking too badly to manage the bottle, and Indrie reaches down between them and takes Eskil's cock in his hand. He slicks him thoroughly, stroking base to tip, spreading the oil along the entire length of him until he is shining, and Eskil's hips push up into his fist and his teeth bare and the sound he makes is low and animal and impatient.

"Indrie," Eskil says, and it is a plea.

Indrie rises up on his knees. He positions Eskil's cock behind him, holding the base steady with one hand, and feels the slick press of the head against where he is open and ready. His other hand is braced on Eskil's chest. He can feel Eskil's heart under his palm, pounding hard enough to come through the bone. His hole twitches against the head of Eskil's cock, kissing it, and even that much makes him gasp.

He sinks down.

The first inch is always the most. The head pushes past the resistance and Indrie's mouth falls open on a gasp and his fingers curl against Eskil's chest and Eskil grabs his hips, not pushing, not pulling, just holding, his thumbs pressing into the hollows above Indrie's hipbones. Indrie breathes through it and takes more, easing down in a slow, steady slide, his body opening around Eskil inch by inch. He can feel every ridge of him, every vein, the impossible thickness stretching his rim wider and wider as he sinks, and the fullness builds and builds and builds until he is sitting in Eskil's lap with all of him inside, his ass flush against Eskil's hips, and his thighs will not hold him and he cannot breathe and Eskil is gripping him so hard there will be bruises in the morning.

He sits there, impaled and trembling, and lets his body adjust. Eskil is huge inside him, deep and hot. Indrie can feel him everywhere, every twitch and pulse, the throb of his heartbeat through the length of him, pressed so deep Indrie feels it under his ribs. Eskil's chest is heaving and his jaw is tight and his eyes are squeezed shut and he is holding himself perfectly, perfectly still, even though Indrie can feel him twitching inside, desperate to move.

Indrie rocks his hips. Just a shift, an experimental tilt forward and back, and the feeling is so intense he cries out. The angle is different from this position, deeper, and the movement drags Eskil's cock across the place inside him that makes his body light up, a grinding pressure that punches the air out of him, and his cock jerks between them, untouched, leaking a bead onto Eskil's stomach.

He braces both hands on Eskil's chest and lifts his hips and drops them.

Eskil swears. The sound is guttural and desperate and entirely involuntary, and his hands spasm on Indrie's hips, and Indrie does it again. Lifts and drops, lifts and drops, finding the rhythm, his thighs burning with the effort of holding himself up and driving himself down onto that cock. Each time he sinks, Eskil fills him to the root. Each time he lifts, he feels the drag of it pulling at his rim, the obscene stretch of being opened around that girth, and then he drops and takes it all again. The room is full of it, skin slapping, oil squelching, and Eskil is watching him from below with a look of open, ruined desire, and Indrie has never once in his life been looked at that way.

He rolls his hips on the downstroke, a slow grind at the bottom, and the pressure is extraordinary, Eskil's cock pressed so deep inside him that Indrie can feel him in his stomach, a fullness that borders on too much. Indrie's legs have stopped obeying him. His cock is dripping a steady string onto Eskil's abdomen, untouched, the head wet and shining, bouncing with every movement. The sounds coming out of his mouth are sounds he has never made before, high and broken and utterly beyond his control, dragged out of him every time he seats himself fully.

Eskil's hands slide from his hips up to his waist and then higher, up his ribs, over his chest, and his thumbs find Indrie's nipples and press, rolling them, pinching just enough to sting, and Indrie's back arches and his rhythm stutters. Eskil does it again, rolling his thumbs in slow circles, and Indrie whimpers and grinds down harder, chasing the feeling, his body tightening around Eskil's cock hard enough to make Eskil's hips jerk.

"Fuck, you’re so gorgeous," Eskil says, and his voice is rougher than Indrie has ever heard it, scraped raw and shaking at the edges. "Taking all of me. You're so fucking beautiful. Your hole is stretched so wide around me, sweetheart, I can feel you sucking me in every time you lift⁠—"