Chapter 24 #3
Indrie sucks in a breath. His expression is breathtaking, flushed and dazed and so open it hurts to look at, and he reaches both hands down between them and wraps them around their cocks.
His fingers are slender, a healer's fingers, precise even now, and the feeling of them closing around Eskil alongside himself is extraordinary.
They can barely fit around the both of them.
Indrie's fingertips don't quite meet, and the extra pressure of trying makes them both groan.
"Fuck," Eskil hisses through his teeth. "Just like that. Just — fuck, you have no idea what those hands feel like. So soft. Squeezing my cock like that — gods —"
Indrie strokes. Tentatively at first, unsure of the rhythm, of the pressure. Eskil guides him with his own hand, wrapping over Indrie's, showing him the pace. The combined slick of their precome makes it obscenely wet, and the sound of it fills the cabin.
"Tighter," Eskil murmurs. "A little — yes. That's it. That's perfect. Just like that. Stroke us just like that."
"Like — like this?" Indrie's voice is thin, wrecked, and he tightens his grip and twists his wrist on the upstroke and Eskil's whole body jerks and he groans so loud it startles them both.
Indrie learns fast. His grip tightens, his rhythm steadies, and Eskil fucks him with his fingers in time with Indrie's strokes and the dual sensation, Indrie's hand on his cock and his fingers inside Indrie's body, builds to a peak that is blinding.
Indrie's hole is clenching around his fingers in time with the strokes, pulling him in greedily, and the wet sounds of it, the slick rhythm of their hands, Indrie's escalating moans — the cabin is full of the sounds of them.
"You're going to make me come," Eskil tells him, voice ragged, the words pressed into Indrie's throat. "Those beautiful hands on my cock — fuck, you're stroking me so good — do you have any idea — gods, Indrie, I want to come all over you, I want to mark every inch of this perfect skin —"
"Yes," Indrie chokes out, and his hands tighten convulsively, and the word is so unexpected and so fervent that Eskil's hips snap up into their combined grip. "Yes, please, I want — I want to feel you — I'm — Eskil, I'm —"
Indrie comes first. His body goes rigid, his back arching, his hands tightening convulsively, and the sound he makes is barely a sound, a choked, desperate thing, half gasp and half sob that cracks into a high, breaking cry, his whole body shaking as the orgasm tears through him.
His cock pulses in their combined grip and the warmth of it spills over their hands and between their bodies, painting Eskil's stomach, his chest, their intertwined fingers, and the sight of it, Indrie coming apart, Indrie lost, Indrie his, his cock twitching and spurting between them, his face shattered with a pleasure so intense it looks like agony — sends Eskil over the edge a heartbeat later.
His release is violent. The fever has primed his body to a trigger-hair sensitivity and the orgasm crashes through him, intense enough that his vision blackens at the edges and his arms lock around Indrie and his hips jerk upward into their joined hands.
He comes hard, harder than he can remember, coating Indrie's stomach and cock and fingers, mixing with Indrie's release until neither of them can tell whose is whose, the pleasure and the relief and the slow recession of the fever tangled together into something that is almost too much to bear.
But it's not enough.
The feeling is incredible, the aftermath of it, the two of them panting and trembling and slick and spent, Indrie's stomach and thighs glazed with the mess of them both, but it doesn't sate the burning in Eskil's body.
The fever has receded but not broken. The heat is still there, banked rather than extinguished, and Eskil can feel it rebuilding already, the embers catching, the urgency returning.
The fruit demands more. The fruit demands completion.
And what they've done, good as it was, extraordinary as it was, is not what the fruit considers complete.
He needs to be inside Indrie immediately.
The thought arrives with a clarity that cuts through the fog, sharp and precise and undeniable. Not the frenzied demand of the fruit but a statement of fact, clinical in its simplicity: this is what is required. This is the cure. Everything else has been prelude.
Eskil shifts Indrie in his lap. The younger man is boneless, pliant, still trembling with aftershocks, his face pressed against Eskil's throat and his breath hot and ragged against his skin.
His body is loose and relaxed in a way it hasn't been since the moment Eskil met him, every wall down, every defense dissolved, the fear and the tension and the careful composure stripped away by pleasure until there is nothing left but Indrie himself, bare and real and devastatingly open.
His stomach and chest are sticky with cooling spend, his thighs slick with salve, and the debauched state of him makes Eskil's cock throb back to full hardness with a speed that should be impossible and can only be attributed to the fruit.
He slicks himself up with their combined release, adding more salve for good measure, his fist working over his own cock in slow, slick strokes, and Indrie must feel the motion because he lifts his head from Eskil's shoulder.
He glances down between them, at Eskil's hand on his own cock and the color that floods his face is extraordinary.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He buries his face back in Eskil's throat.
"It isn't going to fit," he says, muffled, his voice small and certain and horrified.
Eskil laughs into his hair.
The sound surprises them both. It's genuine, not the sharp, humorless laugh of the past few days but something warm and startled and real, pulled from him by the utter sincerity of Indrie's dismay. He presses his lips against Indrie's temple, a kiss so soft it barely qualifies.
"You can take it, beautiful," he says, low and steady and sure. "I've already had three fingers inside you and you were begging for more."
He guides Indrie down.
Slowly. So slowly. One hand on Indrie's hip, controlling the descent, the other on himself, holding steady, notching the blunt, slick head of his cock against Indrie's entrance.
The first press of entry makes Eskil's jaw lock, his vision tunnel.
Indrie's body resists for one agonizing moment, the tight ring of muscle pushing back against the intrusion — then yields, the head of Eskil's cock sinking past the rim with a slick, obscene ease that punches a groan out of Eskil from somewhere deep in his chest. The heat and the tightness and the pressure are beyond anything the fever has produced, beyond anything his fingers promised, a pleasure so intense it loops back around into something that feels very close to pain, Indrie's body gripping the head of his cock so tight it's almost unbearable, and every instinct he has screams at him to pull Indrie down and drive up into him and bury himself to the root in a single, devastating stroke.
He doesn't. He holds. He breathes. He keeps his hand on Indrie's hip with a grip that is firm but not bruising and he waits for the younger man's body to adjust. Indrie's breath is coming in small, sharp bursts against his throat, and his hands on Eskil's shoulders have gone from gripping to clinging, his fingers white against the scarred skin.
"Oh gods," Indrie's voice is thin, strained, his body taut as a bowstring. "I can feel — you're so — oh —" His inner walls clench involuntarily around the head of Eskil's cock and they both hiss. "I just — I need a moment, I need —"
"Breathe," Eskil tells him. The word is rough, scraped from a throat that doesn't want to form words when it could be making other sounds. "Breathe, sweetheart. I've got you. Take what you need. We go at your pace. Every inch at your pace."
Indrie breathes. Inhales. Exhales. His body eases, opens, accepts another inch, and the slow, slick slide of it — the feeling of Indrie's body parting for him, taking him in, the tight channel of muscle and heat yielding one agonizing fraction at a time — makes Eskil's vision swim.
Another inch. Another. Indrie is panting now, his breath coming in sharp little ah-ah-ah sounds that hitch higher with each increment, his fingers scrabbling at Eskil's shoulders, and then Indrie makes a sound — a low, shaking groan that vibrates against Eskil's throat, his body opening in one final, devastating surrender — and sinks the rest of the way down.
"Oh — oh, I can — you're so deep —" Indrie's voice is barely recognizable, thin and shattered and awed. His thighs are trembling violently where they bracket Eskil's hips. "I can feel you everywhere."
"Fuck." The word leaves Eskil on a shuddering exhale, his forehead dropping against Indrie's shoulder. "Indrie — gods, you feel —"
He can't finish. Language has abandoned him.
Indrie is tight and hot and perfect around him, his body clenching and fluttering in involuntary spasms that milk Eskil's cock in rhythmic waves, and Eskil has to close his eyes and breathe through his own teeth and recite the names of every river in Rengara to keep from coming on the spot.
The feeling of being buried inside him, fully seated, Indrie's ass flush against his hips, the tight heat of him gripping every inch — it is obscene. It is sacred. It is both at once.
The fever surges, recognizing its cure, and the relief is immediate, a rush of cooling clarity that sweeps through his blood, washing the burn from his veins, easing the pounding in his head, loosening the vice that's been clamped around his chest since the fruit took hold.
This is what the Cara wants. This is the bond it demands. Two bodies joined, shared, complete.