Page 66 of Setting the Break

He pulls back slow, watching his cock drag out of him, shiny with oil, Indrie's hole clinging to the shaft like it does not want to let him go, and then he drives in, and Indrie sobs and moans at once and cannot separate the two. He does it again. He sets a rhythm that is deep and slow and thorough, every stroke deliberate, every one angled to drag across the place inside Indrie that makes his toes curl up and his voice crack. The wet sound of it fills the room. Skin. Oil. The filthy wet noise of Eskil's cock fucking into him.

"I'm yours," Eskil tells him. "You know that? You never have to wonder about it again. I'm yours. I've been yours since I laid eyes on you. Whatever you want, for the rest of my life. Anything."

Indrie is loud. He always has been. He cannot hold any of it back, however red he goes about it afterward, and Eskil loves it with a ferocity that is very probably not healthy. Let the whole keep hear it. Let the council hear it through the floor. Eskil hopes to every god there is that Vigdis is standing directly underneath this room, listening to the king's healer get fucked open on the king's cock.

He leans down over Indrie's back and changes the angle and gets deeper, puts some of his weight on him and bears him down into the mattress. The sound Indrie makes when the angle shifts is raw and completely out of his control and loud enough to go through stone. Eskil's cock is grinding over that spot on every thrust now, and Indrie's hole is fluttering around him, wet and greedy.

"There," Indrie gasps. His fingers crush Eskil's. "There. Eskil, harder, please⁠—"

Eskil plants his free hand next to Indrie's shoulder and drives into him, and there is no room in his head for anything else. There is only this, Indrie under him and around him, holding onto his hand and crying out on every thrust, his hole stretched wide around Eskil's cock, the wet slap of Eskil's hips against his ass getting louder.

The pace goes. His restraint was already fraying and now it gives out entirely. He fucks him harder and faster and the bed complains and neither of them cares. Indrie is pushing back to meet every stroke, his ass slapping back onto Eskil's cock, and the room is full of the sound of it, skin and oil and the frame knocking the wall and Indrie's voice, which has given up on words entirely, just ah— ah— Eskil— punched out of him on every thrust.

"So beautiful," Eskil says into the back of his neck. "You're perfect. Gods damn it, you're perfect, and you're mine to look at, and I get to look at you every day."

He is close. It is building low in his belly and winding tighter with every stroke, and he can feel Indrie getting close too, that flutter around him that means he is nearly there, hard again where he is pressed into the sheets, leaving a wet smear of precome with every thrust.

Eskil lets go of his hand and gets an arm around his waist and hauls him up.

Indrie gasps as he comes up off the mattress, and then his back is flat against Eskil's chest and the angle is completely different, and Eskil is deeper than before, grinding up into that spot from below, and Indrie's head drops back onto his shoulder and a high, broken sound tears out of him. His cock is standing up dark and dripping, bouncing against his stomach with every thrust, a string of precome swinging from the slit.

Eskil keeps one arm clamped across his chest, his hand splayed over Indrie's throat, not squeezing, just holding, feeling the swallow, the pulse. The other goes down over his stomach and closes around his cock, and Indrie sobs. His whole body shakes. His hands come up over his head and back into Eskil's braids and grip, and Eskil strokes him in time with his hips, fist tight and wet, thumb smearing over the head on every upstroke, and Indrie is gone, making sounds that are not words and are not quite crying, somewhere out past the edge of what his voice can do.

Indrie comes with his mouth open on a cry. He spills over Eskil's fist and onto the sheets, thick and hot, pulse after pulse, every muscle in him pulling tight and then letting go in waves in Eskil's arms. His hands clench in Eskil's hair and hold on. The sound of his voice breaking, the grip on his braids, all of it hits Eskil at once, and he follows him over with a groan he buries in Indrie's shoulder.

He comes hard, deep inside him, hips grinding up in short helpless jerks, pumping him full, his arm locked across Indrie's chest and not letting go for anything. Indrie whimpers in his arms, oversensitive, hole twitching around the thick length still buried in him, and Eskil holds him through it and holds himself through it, and for a while there is nothing in the whole world but the two of them, and Indrie's ruined breathing.

They go down together. Eskil gets them onto their sides and pulls Indrie back against his chest and keeps his arm around him. He does not pull out. He is not ready to. He wants to stay exactly like this, with Indrie curled into him and warm everywhere, his cock still fat and spent inside that wet heat, his come leaking out around him in a slow filthy trickle down Indrie's thigh.

Indrie is shaking, the good kind. His breathing is ragged and his hand finds Eskil's forearm and wraps around it, and he makes a soft, satisfied little sound that takes the last of whatever was still wound tight in Eskil's chest and lets it go.

Eskil's hand drifts down, over Indrie's soft sticky cock, over his balls, back to where they are joined. He feels it with his fingers. The stretch of Indrie's hole around the base of him. The slick mess of oil and come. He presses two fingers alongside his own cock, just resting there, and Indrie makes a tiny punched-out noise and tightens.

"You're so fucking full of me," Eskil murmurs into the short hair at the back of his neck, pulling his fingers back out. "You're perfect like this."

"You're incorrigible," Indrie tells him, red to his throat, and there is no heat in it at all.

They lie there a long time. The fire pops. Outside the window it is snowing, the first of the year, and Eskil can see the flakes going past in the glow from the hearth. Eskil finally pulls himself out and Indrie turns over in his arms and burrows in against his chest, sticky and spent and undone, his hair a disaster, his mouth kiss-swollen. Eskil can feel the wetness smeared between Indrie's thighs where they are tangled.

"You didn't sleep," Indrie says, after a while. "Did you? The whole three days."

"Some."

"Eskil."

"A bit," Eskil says. "Here and there."

Indrie pulls back far enough to look up at him. Then he asks it, quietly, the thing Eskil could have been asked in his study a few days ago and was not, the thing he spent a whole argument dodging so he would never have to answer it.

"Were you frightened?"

Eskil has a lie ready. He has had it ready, and it is a good one, and it goes something like I was angry, which is true enough to pass.

He looks down into Indrie's face and finds that he has used up his whole life's supply of easy tonight.

"I was scared out of my fucking mind," Eskil says.

Indrie does not say anything.