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“Priest! Priest, are you awake?”
The whisper coming from the doorway, judging by its volume, was not intended to leave Athelstan asleep. He blinked in the dim light, unsure if it was morning. In midsummer, it was difficult to tell.
Ragnar was poking his head through the open door, an expectant look on his face. The moment he saw Athelstan stir, he took that as an invitation to enter, creeping on tiptoe toward the bed.
“Everything all right?” Athelstan was groggy but growing concerned; anything dangerous can and had happened in the night.
“Yes,” Ragnar hissed, maintaining the pretense of keeping quiet. “Aslaug says she can’t bear my restlessness another night. I have trouble sleeping in midsummer. I cannot help it.”
Athelstan smiled wryly. “So you’ve decided to disturb my sleep instead of your wife’s.”
Ragnar lifted a shoulder in an indifferent shrug as he climbed into the fur-draped bed and sprawled out beside the priest, crossing his ankles casually. “She threatened to drug me with sleeping medicine if I didn’t let her rest. And she has the knowledge and means.” He eyed Athelstan sidelong. “You, I think, do not.”
Athelstan acknowledged this with a lift of his brow, and while he was quite tired, he secretly enjoyed the camaraderie he and Ragnar had shared since their return from England. Ragnar had assigned him quarters not far from his own, inside the keep. Athelstan had been able to spend more time with the children while they were most active in the morning. After the ugliness of recent battles, the last few weeks seemed an island of contentment.
Ragnar had been insatiably curious of late, asking Athelstan to teach him the customs of any people he had encountered. Foods, language, learning. His English, already decent, was improving daily in nuance. Athelstan decided to engage him.
“What hour is it?” Athelstan asked, switching from Norse to English.
Ragnar’s blue-green eyes flicked quickly to the side, as they often did when he was thinking. “It is the middle night.”
“Midnight?”
“Midnight,” Ragnar replied, with the confidence of one who had been right all along. He rolled to face Athelstan, propping his head on an elbow.
In the continual twilight that served as Scandanavian dark at midsummer, Athelstan glanced at his companion. His energy was taut, childlike. He was wide awake. Athelstan thought he was unlikely to get much rest tonight. He noticed Ragnar was minimally clothed, a pair of leather trousers hastily slung about his hips, not even completely fastened, and no shirt or tunic to speak of. His chiseled beauty, made rough by tattoos and unkempt braids, was frequently on display for anyone who cared to observe it.
Athelstan, too, had taken to the Norse custom of sleeping in undergarments in the warmer weather; he was bare to the waist above his linen trousers.
He also noticed Ragnar’s gaze sliding over his bare skin. The weight of that gaze made the priest’s breath catch.
“Where is your armband?” Ragnar asked in Norse, reaching out to enclose Athelstan’s wrist. He lifted his arm up for examination.
“It’s on the table. I don’t wear it to sleep.” Athelstan replied in English, suspecting Ragnar was teasing him, though it was sometimes difficult to tell.
Ragnar’s eyes glinted in a way that confirmed Athelstan’s suspicions of mocking. He answered in English. “Do you not serve me also while sleep?”
“…While sleeping.”
Ragnar grinned. “So you agree.”
“I wasn’t…” Athelstan had to smile at that volley. Well played, Ragnar, indeed. “Of course I remain your servant while sleeping, but there is no one here to see it.”
“Well, now I am here to see it. Go and retrieve it.” He tipped his chin toward the table, a smile tugging at his mouth.
Athelstan blinked at him. “You go and get it, if you want me to wear it.”
“I do not like this…” Ragnar paused to think, the tip of his tongue coming out to wet his lips. Back to Norse. “How do you say ‘insolence’?”
Athelstan translated the word for him, and then continued in English, “If my lord does not like my insolence, he is welcome to leave my chambers.”
Ragnar shifted, settling himself more comfortably in the bed. He folded his hands behind his head. “I think your English lord would have you beaten for saying such things.”
Athelstan lifted a brow. “Perhaps. I suppose it’s good I’m not there anymore.”
“All the more reason to be grateful you serve me. Go and get the armband.” The teasing note was back in his voice.
Athelstan heaved a sigh, and thrust back the light coverlet. “If I get it, will you let me sleep?”
Ragnar pursed his lips, raising and lowering his brows. “Perhaps.”
Athelstan climbed out at the foot of the bed, crossed to the pine table, snatched up the armband, and tossed it at Ragnar before he crawled back in. Ragnar caught it gracefully in one hand.
They lay on their sides, facing one another. Ragnar pulled Athelstan’s arm toward him, and carefully slipped the metal band around his wrist. Athelstan knew, though they never said, that the armband was a token of friendship, and not of fealty. To Ragnar the two ideas were often combined, but there was more to this particular token.
Athelstan knew it pleased Ragnar to see him marked as his. In a way, it pleased Athelstan as well.
Ragnar’s fingers lingered on Athelstan’s forearm, tracing a pattern absently. “Tell me, priest, how do English men greet their lords?”
Athelstan tried not to be distracted by the feeling of Ragnar’s calloused fingertips stroking the soft skin of his arm. “There’s a few ways. A bow. Kissing the ring, or simply the hand.”
“Like so?” Ragnar had Athelstan’s hand turned palm upward, as the Norsemen did with their seer. His lips were parted. Athelstan hastened to stop him from licking his palm.
“No! No, er, the other way.”
“Show me.”
Athelstan took Ragnar’s broad, tanned hand in his own, and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss below the knuckles. He closed his eyes from habit, but when he opened them, still holding Ragnar’s fingers, he noticed Ragnar’s eyes were sparkling with mischief.
Ragnar jabbed a decisive finger in the air, in Athelstan’s direction. “I like this. You should do this whenever you greet me.”
Athelstan bit back a grin. “Won’t our Norse brothers think it rather odd?”
“What do you care?”
This statement was allowed to pass in silence, but the subtext was clear. In addition to Ragnar’s curiosity and interest in all things foreign, there was no small amount of speculation about his fondness for the priest.
Athelstan lifted a shoulder in a shrug, reluctantly releasing Ragnar’s hand. “You shall have to get a ring. Then you can demand that everyone kiss it.”
“I don’t need a ring to demand this greeting. See? Kiss here.” Ragnar presented his hand to Athelstan again, insistently tapping his fingers below the knuckles with the index finger of his other hand. Ragnar’s lips were curled into a playful smirk.
Amused by the game, Athelstan obediently pressed his lips to the proffered hand. If he lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary, Ragnar did not object.
“There. It works. Again.” This time Ragnar tapped his forearm with his index finger. Athelstan chuckled, but shifted to press a kiss upon the tanned skin there, as well.
There was something highly erotic about feeling Ragnar’s hot, bare arm below his tender lips. A warning began to clang deep in the recesses of Athelstan’s mind, but it was an old one, and he had grown used to it. Ragnar’s nearness often excited him. It was unsettling at first, but now it had become a sort of dangerous pleasure. Granted, the man was an unparalleled specimen of masculine beauty, rivaled only by the Roman portraits he had seen in Ecbert’s frescoes.
And Athelstan had never learned to categorize the various sources of the erotic. For so long, they were all in one place: sin. But now?
Ragnar was regarding him, his blue gaze intent. “Here,” he said, tapping the outer curve of his shoulder.
For that, Athelstan had to shift his body, pushing himself up on his forearms. He touched his lips to the smooth muscle, his chin brushing Ragnar’s bicep. A tremor seemed to pass through Ragnar’s arm. Athelstan’s chest tightened at the response.
He leaned his head back, meeting Ragnar’s eyes.
“Here,” Ragnar whispered, his voice catching, his eyes bright. He tapped his own face, on his cheek.
Again, Athelstan had to shift to reach. He placed a hand on the bed beside Ragnar’s stomach, using it to balance as he leaned in. His stubbled chin brushed Ragnar’s soft, short beard, and he felt his chest clench. Heat seemed to be radiating from the Norseman’s skin. Though he thought he might be trembling, he dutifully pressed his mouth to Ragnar’s cheek. He resisted the urge to capture the taste of Ragnar’s skin that might remain on his lips. He drew away, slowly, unsure of what would happen next.
Ragnar was watching him, almost all the mirth gone from his look. In its place was something else, something fierce. The warning bells in Athelstan’s mind rang out again, loud and clear.
Wordlessly, holding Athelstan’s gaze, Ragnar tapped his own lips.
Feeling his arms shake, but totally unable to resist, Athelstan bent his head and pressed his lips to Ragnar’s.
It was the briefest of touches – no more than one or two seconds – but Athelstan felt the power of it clear through his body. As though lightning were passing through him, his nerve endings sizzled and his skin tingled. He hovered there after he drew back, an inch from Ragnar’s mouth, waiting for the next command.
No command came. Instead, it was Ragnar who closed the distance, leaning up to fit his lips between Athelstan’s. This kiss, too, was gentle, and momentary. Athelstan rather thought it was a question. Ragnar behaved as though the other man was his to command as he pleased, but he always asked; willingness seemed to matter.
This time, his body’s response to the feeling of Ragnar’s mouth against his went beyond the breath in his chest and a tingling along his skin. Athelstan felt his cock jump and begin to harden. He bit his lip, a rueful groan escaping his throat.
At the sound, the restraint Ragnar had been displaying thus far evaporated in an instant. He slid his hands along Athelstan’s jaw, bringing him close to capture his mouth yet again. This was no chaste kiss, no humble demonstration of respect. Ragnar drove his lips apart with his tongue and held Athelstan’s head in place as he plunged deep into his mouth.
God forgive me, Athelstan thought, without pausing to specify which God. He responded to Ragnar in kind, unfamiliar with such kissing, tentatively touching Ragnar’s tongue with his own as his rough stubble scraped Ragnar’s cheek.
The covers rustled as Ragnar shifted beneath him, bringing his hands along Athelstan’s sides and sliding them up along his naked back. The rough touch of Ragnar’s palms sent heat pooling to his groin. His already erect penis jumped against Ragnar’s firm thigh.
Athelstan jerked his head back, and Ragnar opened his eyes. Athelstan did not have a moment to act before Ragnar flipped him over onto his back, leaning over to kiss him again, this time gently nuzzling his lips before nipping them with his teeth.
One of Ragnar’s hands had insinuated itself beneath the covers and was resting over Athelstan’s hardened cock through the thin fabric of his trousers.
“I want you, priest,” Ragnar whispered in Norse as he lightly scraped his teeth over Athelstan’s jaw. “Will you let me have you?”
Somehow he managed to sound playful. Athelstan could not miss the delight in Ragnar’s face as he tightened his hand on the younger man’s cock, making him gasp.
Athelstan fought to think, overwhelmed by the sensation of Ragnar’s skin against his, Ragnar’s body above his, Ragnar’s woodsy scent filling his nostrils.
“I’m not certain I know what that means, between men,” Athelstan replied in English, both of them reverting to their native tongues in the uncharted territory they had entered.
Ragnar paused, tilting his head to one side, examining Athelstan’s face in the dimness, as though seeing it for the first time. “So much learning in this fine head,” he said, stroking a thumb pensively over Athelstan’s forehead. “Yet so little knowledge of the world.”
Athelstan swallowed, his throat dry, his chest tight with nervous anticipation. “Maybe so. Enlighten me.”
Ragnar acknowledged this request with a lift of his brows, and then rolled to the side to once again prop his head playfully on his elbow. “Where to start? Shall I go all the way back to the beginning? Sometimes, when a man likes a woman very much…” he began in English, deliberately using the somewhat patronizing tone he had often used when explaining the ways of the world to Bjorn.
This time, Athelstan realized he was being mocked. “Ragnar.”
Ragnar’s mouth twisted into a smirk, but he went on talking. “Or if indeed, he likes another man, he may feel changes in his body...”
“Ragnar.”
“But it is important not to be afraid of these changes. They are all completely… natural.”
“Ragnar!” Athelstan turned and smacked his companion hard in the chest. “Enough.”
Ragnar easily captured the arm Athelstan had used to strike him, and could not keep the laughter from his voice. “A man may feel… larger and full of desire. In his… “ Ragnar broke off laughing, abandoning English. “What’s the word? Not the vulgar one, the polite one you teach to children?”
Athelstan turned and shoved Ragnar with all his strength, and Ragnar, still laughing, tumbled sideways off the bed. He continued laughing from the floor. “You’re a prick,” Athelstan declared.
“Prick? What’s a ‘prick’?” came Ragnar’s answer, and soon he was sitting up on the floor, still catching his breath from laughing. He folded his elbows on the bed and peered inquisitively at Athelstan.
Athelstan glared back at him. “Not so funny now, is it?”
“Come, I am joking.”
“Yes, it’s all a big joke to you.” Athelstan yanked a cover over himself, protectively. “You know damn well I understand anatomy and have had to witness plenty of demonstrations since I came here. Just not that. All right?”
Ragnar cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to quell the laughter for good. “All right,” he said, his only concession being the continued use of English. An apology would be unheard of.
Ragnar straightened his arms, the motion drawing Athelstan’s gaze before he could resist. Carefully, lightly, Ragnar climbed back atop the pile of furs and crept toward Athelstan.
Athelstan shifted, propping himself up on his elbows. “What are you doing?”
Ragnar paused in his catlike approach. “Do you want me to teach you? Or not?”
Athelstan looked at his companion, gorgeous in his half-naked glory, knowing he was both curious and afraid. Not afraid Ragnar would hurt him, but afraid of where the path would lead. He knew what this was. It was not as though they were the first pair of men ever to have the idea.
But he also knew, looking at his friend, that he’d have done anything almost anything for Ragnar. Willingly. He’d fought for him, killed men for him. Next to that, what was sodomy?
Athelstan opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of what to say. Thankfully, Ragnar interpreted this correctly and quickly closed the distance between them.
“Don’t worry, priest,” Ragnar said, gently taking Athelstan’s face between his hands and easing him up until they faced each other. “If you don’t like it, we will stop.”
Athelstan suppressed a grin. “Well, I would hope so.”
“There, you see? Am I not kind?” Ragnar replied, the joking note returned to his voice. He bent his head to capture Athelstan’s lower lip for a brief moment before letting it spring back into place.
“Most generous,” Athelstan murmured, eagerly awaiting the next touch of Ragnar’s mouth to his.
Ragnar slipped a hand behind Athelstan’s head, his fingers spreading greedily into his hair. He pulled Athelstan to him for a deep, slow, unmistakably possessive kiss. It left Athelstan flushed, sweating and extremely aroused.
Ragnar drew back and shoved bedcovers out of his way with rough impatience. But the hands he used to pull Athelstan closer were tender, not rough; Ragnar guided him onto his back with a slow, careful motion.
“Do you still say I am a prick? Whatever that is?” Ragnar whispered, opening his mouth to taste the stubble beneath Athelstan’s jaw. His tongue burned a path down the younger man’s neck.
Athelstan smiled to himself. Apparently the barb had stung. “Sometimes you are. But not now. It’s a foolish or cruel person.”
Ragnar’s eyes went wide with understanding. “Ah.”
“And also…” Athelstan took one of Ragnar’s hands and guided it between his legs, letting Ragnar feel the strength of his erection. “This.”
“This?” Ragnar echoed, giving an exploratory squeeze. “So many words, English has, for that!”
Ragnar’s curiosity about English did not delay him long, however. It seemed to give way quickly to his curiosity about Athelstan: how well Athelstan’s cock fit into his palm; how it felt to cup his sac in his hand; how much he could make Athelstan groan, as he measured and teased and explored through the thin fabric.
Athelstan’s linen trousers were soon dispensed with. In return, Athelstan was treated to the sight of Ragnar standing beside the bed, unfastening his own trousers and shucking them quickly, gracefully, as the man seemed to do everything with his body. Athelstan looked his fill, admiring the fair skin burnished by the sun and marked here and there by battle scars. The sculpted, sinewy muscles, created by a farmer’s laboring and a warrior’s necessity. Parts of his story written on his body in tattoos. Ragnar was, at times like the present, absurdly beautiful. He might not have been an actual god, but Athelstan rather thought he looked the part.
When he raised his eyes to Ragnar’s face, he realized Ragnar had remained there, still, watching him as his younger friend took in the full view. Athelstan supposed he ought to feel a bit ashamed at being caught in such perusal, but he wasn’t. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Even if Ragnar teased him for it.
Which, of course, he did.
“Like what you see, priest?” Ragnar whispered. He struck an athlete’s pose, resting his chin on a fist as he flexed a bicep. “What do you think?”
Athelstan rolled his eyes. “I think I wish I had something to throw at you.”
“Wildflowers?” Ragnar grinned wolfishly as he crawled back into bed.
“Rotten vegetables, more like.”
Ragnar sucked his teeth in mocking disapproval. “You Englishmen show your admiration in such strange ways.” Sprawled on his side facing Athelstan, Ragnar brushed his beard over Athelstan’s shoulder, pensively. “Tell me, priest, do you touch yourself?”
Athelstan’s eyes widened at the question. “Er. Once in a while, yes. When the temptation… grows too great.”
He feared he knew what Ragnar would say next, and he was right: “Show me.”
Athelstan hesitated, turning his head to meet Ragnar’s gaze. He was out of patience for mocking, but that did not seem to be Ragnar’s intent; his expression was alert, interested, his blue eyes focused.
There was probably no one else on Earth who could have convinced Athelstan to do such a thing, but somehow Ragnar could. If it pleased Ragnar to see such a thing, then so be it.
Athelstan lowered a hand to stroke himself, keeping his eyes on Ragnar’s face. He felt hot all over, as though embers burned him from within. He itched to have Ragnar’s skin against his own. At the thought, he groaned, his eyes briefly closing.
“Good,” Ragnar whispered to him. “Continue… slowly.”
Athelstan closed his eyes in concentration, indulging in a few deep, slow pulls. He reminded himself to breathe, as it had become more difficult to remember how. For a moment, there was no sound in the room save for their breathing. It would have been a peaceful evening, were the air not thick with tension and desire.
“Look at me,” came the reprimand from his companion.
He forced his eyes open again. Ragnar met his eyes, reaching a hand over to cup his jaw. His thumb stroked Athelstan’s cheek affectionately. “Good,” Ragnar whispered again, before dropping his head and drawing in a desperate breath. His fingers closed around Athelstan’s arm, ceasing his movements.
“Now, do to me.”
It was not the most eloquent of requests, but Athelstan allowed his hand to be brought to Ragnar’s groin. When he made contact, Ragnar hissed. His hips thrust into Athelstan’s waiting hand. “Again,” he muttered, his eyes blinking closed.
Athelstan watched, wondrous, at the effect he could have on his powerful friend. He experimented with hand position, with quick and slow movements. He took Ragnar’s sac in his other hand, as had been previously done to him, marveling at the reaction he could elicit. Ragnar sighed, he sweated, he chewed his lip; it seemed he was fighting to bite back words, to avoid losing the power of his command.
Suddenly, Athelstan realized that was what he himself wanted: to see Ragnar reduced to powerlessness. If not completely, then partially. As far as Athelstan could bring him. It would serve him right, the smug Norse bastard.
“Enjoying this, aren’t you?” Athelstan said to him, inching his body closer until he was pressed along Ragnar’s side. He slowed the motions of his hand, moving it all the way to the tip of Ragnar’s cock, as though he were thinking of stopping entirely.
A short grunt was the only reply Ragnar gave, though he shifted impatiently.
Athelstan paused in his efforts, taking the opportunity to run his hand over Ragnar’s stomach and chest, stroking his shoulders.
“Why do you stop?” Ragnar’s eyes had opened again, mere slits from between which his eyes blazed blue-green. It was a formidable expression, with a hint of menace.
Athelstan bit back a smile. “Do you want me to keep going?”
“Yes,” Ragnar hissed, following the English word with a Norse one, which Athelstan thought might mean idiot.
“That’s not a nice thing to call me,” Athelstan said, moistening his lips as he settled more comfortably beside his companion. “You’re being a prick again.”
“Or I could strike you,” Ragnar growled, returning to Norse. Athelstan raised a brow and looked at him. There was no real threat behind the words, though violence was well within Ragnar’s ability, even in his current state; Athelstan just saw a frustration borne of pent-up desire, of the arrogance Ragnar wore around him like a cloak.
“Well, if you hit me, I would definitely stop,” Athelstan replied in a jovial tone, returning his hand to the other man’s iron-hard penis. He allowed Ragnar a few full, satisfying strokes.
“If you stop your hand, I will have to fuck something else,” Ragnar retorted, reaching over to pull Athelstan’s face closer to his. His grip was none too gentle; his thumb pressed into Athelstan’s mouth.
Athelstan acknowledged this last with a wordless grunt, the only sound he could form under the circumstances. As he gave in to Ragnar’s demands to continue stroking with his hands, Athelstan explored the contours of Ragnar’s thumb with his tongue, tasting the weathered skin.
This, too, produced a groan from Ragnar, and when Athelstan paused to glance at him, Ragnar removed his thumb and replaced it with two fingers, hooked possessively in the younger man’s mouth.
Athelstan accepted the questing fingers eagerly, letting himself be drawn closer, closing his lips around the knuckles, feeling Ragnar match the rhythm of his strokes to the motion of Athelstan’s mouth.
After a few more minutes of this, Athelstan had a revelation.
“So this is what you want,” he said, easing Ragnar’s fingers from his lips. He took them in again, deeply, and Ragnar groaned.
It was a radically new idea to him, but Athelstan rather thought he could manage it.
As he took his hand away from where it had been doing Ragnar’s bidding, shifting in the bed so that his shoulders were even with Ragnar’s hips, Athelstan could feel Ragnar tense up with anticipation. It made him even more determined to proceed.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Athelstan said, bending his head forward to touch his mouth to Ragnar’s firmly muscled stomach. The skin rippled in response. “This is what you want.”
He looked up at Ragnar. Ragnar looked down at him, saying nothing, his predatory expression speaking for him.
Athelstan took Ragnar’s cock and guided it into his mouth. When he felt the tip brush the back of his throat, he eased back again.
The response was swift and clear. Ragnar swore – using some words Athelstan knew, and a few he didn’t – and dug his fingers into the bedcovers, bunching them in his fingers, clenching his fists. Ragnar’s hips lifted off the bed, moving in time to Athelstan’s mouth.
Athelstan reveled in the power of it, in the experience of bring this incredibly strong, powerful man under his control. He moved slower until Ragnar panted, then sped up until Ragnar groaned. His own arousal grew in tandem, and while he didn’t want to break his concentration, his hips somehow moved of their own accord, his own cock hungrily seeking contact.
Perhaps it was his own frustrated desire that drove him to suddenly push farther, letting Ragnar push even deeper into his throat than before.
“Enough,” rasped Ragnar, and Athelstan felt hands in his hair, pulling him away. “Enough or you will finish me.”
Athelstan let himself be guided back, but turned to look at Ragnar’s face, and was incredibly pleased at the desperation he saw in the Norseman’s face. Never again would he bear Ragnar’s incessant teasing, making him feel small and foolish. Not after this.
No one else might know, but he would know, and Ragnar would know, that in this, they were equals. At last.
Ragnar pulled him up until they faced each other again, and Ragnar seemed to struggle to find words as he ran his hands roughly through Athelstan’s hair and along his shoulders.
“Priest,” he began, his voice thick.
“I’m not a priest any more,” Athelstan replied. The moniker had grown tiresome, a reminder of his capture and the life he’d had to renounce. Not to mention the pleasure Ragnar seemed to take in reminding him of his subjugation. “If I didn’t just prove that once and for all, I don’t know what would.”
Ragnar gave a laugh, but it was rough and strained. Athelstan had never seen him so overcome. Ragnar leaned in to touch his lips to Athelstan’s cheek, and it was almost tender. “Athelstan. Englishman. Friend.” He paused, raising a hand to trace Athelstan’s lips and chin with the pad of his thumb. His eyes glinted with mischief. “Ex-priest.”
Athelstan rolled his eyes, but did not pull away.
“Listen to me,” Ragnar said, his breathing still not under control. He tried to gain another deep breath before speaking. He seemed to think for a moment, and then abandoned English completely. “I want to fuck you, but it might hurt a little bit.”
Athelstan’s brows shot upward, and Ragnar let it sink in for a moment. Athelstan repeated what Ragnar had just said in Norse, making sure he’d understood it right. “You… want to ‘fuck’… me.”
“Yes.”
“In my… er…”
“Yes,” Ragnar said impatiently, not allowing him time to feel around for the right term. “That is how it’s done. So?”
“That sounds like it would hurt more than a little bit,” Athelstan said, torn between excitement at the thought of actually being fucked by Ragnar, and his instinctive discomfort with the imagined method. “Have you done this before? You know, in the… as you said.”
Ragnar inclined his head in the affirmative. “Many times, to women. With a man…” He waved his hand indifferently. “I’m sure it is the same.”
“I’m glad you’re sure,” Athelstan replied, realizing with a sinking feeling what his answer would be. What his answer would always be, when it came to Ragnar. Silly him, to think he had gained some power over Ragnar this night. He was helpless when it came to Ragnar. He always had been.
He looked over at Ragnar, who was intently watching him, no doubt waiting for a reply. Ragnar’s face was flushed, his eyes clear and bright. Sexual energy seemed to radiate from him, which served to heighten the anticipation Athelstan already felt. But there was something else, too; it might have been hope. Hope that Athelstan would say yes. Hope that his feelings would be validated and returned, though he was too proud to say so. It was that look, Ragnar’s jaw tight with pride, while his eyes fairly pleaded for some sign of Athelstan’s loyalty. Or affection. Or perhaps, love.
“I don’t know how it will turn out,” Athelstan began, rolling onto his side to face Ragnar. He reached out to cup Ragnar’s jaw in his hand, his fingers curling into the soft beard. Ragnar turned his face, as if by instinct, to press a kiss to Athelstan’s palm. “But.”
“But?”
Athelstan sighed, using his other hand to adjust the armband he wore about his wrist, showing it to Ragnar. “But as long as I wear this…” He took a deep breath, preparing for what he was about to say. “I will do anything you ask. Anything.”
Ragnar closed his eyes, breathing deep, and an expression of relief came over his face. When he opened his eyes again, their blue depths seemed aflame with purpose. “You will not regret it,” Ragnar avowed, his usual tenor voice little more than a rasp.
Athelstan laughed, shaking his head in disbelief at their circumstances. “God, I hope not.”
Ragnar had pinned him to the bed in an instant, his arms caging the younger man on both sides. Ragnar examined him again, as though memorizing his features, from forehead to ears to shoulders.
Athelstan could only imagine what his companion saw: his dark, wavy hair curling around his perspiring face; his cheeks, no doubt, a bit pink from excitement; his gaze, unwavering, always finding its way to Ragnar.
Ragnar bent his head and kissed him, slowly, lightly, running the tip of his tongue along Athelstan’s lips. “Do you know how much pleasure the mouth can give?” Ragnar murmured. “Let me show you.”
In another moment, Ragnar had gripped Athelstan’s cock fully in his hand, firmly, no teasing or exploratory touching now. Athelstan cried out, his hips jerking up in response.
“Shhh,” Ragnar hissed. “You will wake everyone.”
Athelstan laughed again, more quietly this time. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry about that.”
“Perhaps you want everyone to know,” Ragnar remarked, smirking, as he inched his way down the bed.
Athelstan caught his friend’s eyes, not laughing any more. “I don’t care if everyone knows.”
Ragnar did not reply to this last statement, but continued to hold Athelstan’s eyes for a moment longer. Then he roughly circled the base of Athelstan’s cock with his finger and thumb, and lowered his mouth upon him.
My God. So this is what it felt like, what he had done to Ragnar. This heated, intense pleasure. The feel of Ragnar’s tongue and lips and throat on his most sensitive part. The strength of Ragnar’s grip. His strokes were deft and firm. Athelstan was soon overwhelmed… climbing, soaring high and fast.
Ragnar stopped, and Athelstan mentally cursed him. “Not yet, priest,” he whispered.
Athelstan watched as Ragnar spat several times on his own hand, coating a finger with saliva. A few seconds later, Athelstan felt that finger lightly circle his anus. He hissed with pleasure at the intimate touch.
“Relax,” Ragnar commanded. He shoved Athelstan’s knees apart. Ragnar’s mouth returned to claim Athelstan’s cock. The finger pressed into his ass.
Athelstan arched into the motion, the penetration burning, but not painful. It helped that Ragnar was doing an excellent job distracting him with his mouth. The combination set Athelstan adrift in a dark, roiling sea of sensation. He thought he felt when a second finger entered him, but he wasn’t sure. He glanced down to see Ragnar’s arm flexing as he touched him, Ragnar’s head nearly against his thighs as he swallowed his cock. The sight nearly sent Athelstan over the edge.
“Please,” Athelstan ground out from between clenched teeth, not entirely sure what he was begging for.
The fingers were withdrawn; Ragnar released Athelstan from his mouth, as well. “Turn around,” Ragnar told him. “Come to your knees.”
Athelstan did not hesitate to comply, rolling over and taking one last look at Ragnar, who had straightened up, sitting on his knees. Ragnar’s hand was slicking more saliva over his own swollen cock.
Athelstan felt Ragnar’s thighs brush up against his ass, and he leaned forward on his palms. Ragnar’s hands stroked Athelstan’s sides, and one settled upon his lower back. “This is a very nice view,” Ragnar said, the jesting note back in his voice. “Wish you could see it.”
Athelstan smiled, glad they were joking again. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
A moment later, Athelstan felt Ragnar’s hand urging his thighs apart, and then something pressed at his entrance. He held his breath, but Ragnar commanded him to breathe. Then to push back against him. The process took a little while, but Athelstan didn’t mind.
“How does it feel, priest?” Ragnar asked when he had successfully entered about halfway.
Athelstan could not answer right away. How to describe the feeling, the dark pleasure of fullness, the excitement running through his body, the knowledge that Ragnar Lothbrok was actually fucking him? Athelstan’s hand had gone to his own cock, unable to bear the tension any longer. Ragnar pressed forward; Athelstan matched that motion with his hand. Athelstan groaned at the exquisite feeling of it.
“I asked how it feels,” Ragnar asked him again, providing another reminder with a small motion of his hips. “Tell me.”
The man was always curious, it seemed. “…Good?” was all Athelstan could manage, and he hoped it was the right answer.
Ragnar fucked him. Gently at first, slowly, deeply, then harder, more urgently. Athelstan could feel when it was becoming too intense for Ragnar. Ragnar would pause, slicking more spit over his cock. Ragnar would continue after a moment, gradually picking up the pace until he was nearing climax again.
“You are excellent for this,” Ragnar commented at one such point, his excitement thickening his voice to a rasp as he thrust his hips forward again. “Are you not glad we met? You were wasted on a holy life.”
“So it seems,” Athelstan replied, barely choking out the words as the pressure below his cock began to build. He tried to suppress it with his hand, but it would not be ignored much longer. Ragnar altered his angle just slightly, and it touched something inside of him that sharpened the pleasure even more. “Ragnar,” he whispered.
“Soon,” came the almost breathless answer.
“Not soon… now,” Athelstan told him.
Placing a hand on Athelstan’s back for balance, Ragnar carefully withdrew, and then pushed Athelstan so he lay back on the bed, facing him. Ragnar straddled one of Athelstan’s thighs, and he wrapped his hands around Athelstan’s cock.
“I will enjoy watching you,” Ragnar said.
Up to this point, when Athelstan had climaxed while alone, he had done so almost regretfully, ashamed he could not resist his body’s basest urge. This time, Ragnar was pumping him hard, his expression fierce and reverent. This time, when Athelstan was brought over the edge, he felt differently. This time, he was proud to know this great a pleasure, to have been brought there by the man facing him.
The explosion was soon followed by a rush of lightheadedness. He fell back, gulping breaths of air, astonished at the feeling of warm pleasure that seemed to have spread through his entire body. “I think I’ve died,” he managed to gasp out.
Ragnar’s smile of satisfaction was feral. He had leaned back and was panting hard, his brow furrowed, his forehead beaded with sweat. His muscles flexed with each rapid movement of his hand on his own cock. Ragnar’s chest and shoulders and thighs were clenched with the effort, and displayed to gorgeous effect as Athelstan watched him. He was one of the most beautiful things Athelstan had ever seen. Athelstan reveled in it.
Ragnar’s release, when it came, was as extraordinary as the rest of him: decisive and strong. Athelstan caught Ragnar’s gaze just before he fell apart, abandoning the pretense of control as he surrendered to the pleasure of it.
After a moment, Athelstan was amused to realize Ragnar had blatantly aimed for Athelstan’s chest and stomach. Semen was pooling in his belly button. Ragnar, who had collapsed heavily beside him, reached out a hand to touch the remnants. Then, meeting Athelstan’s eyes once more, he used his palm to paint a wide arc across Athelstan’s stomach and abdomen. Ragnar was not a man of many words, but the gesture’s meaning was clear: mine.
Athelstan considered teasing him: Wearing the armband is not enough? You need me to wear this, as well?
Instead, he took Ragnar’s hand from where it had come to rest on his stomach, and lifted it to his lips. He pressed a light, obedient kiss below the knuckles, repeating the gesture that had started them down this path. His meaning was also clear: my lord. When he glanced up, Ragnar’s eyes were blazing brightly.
Ragnar pulled Athelstan close against him, despite their bodies being slick with sweat and sex. They were both exhausted, yet neither closed their eyes.
Ragnar was the first to lighten the mood by speaking. “You see, priest? I told you that you would enjoy it.”
“You were right,” Athelstan freely acknowledged, allowing his head to come to rest against Ragnar’s chest. He exhaled deeply. “Does this mean you’ll let me go to sleep now?”
Ragnar reared back in mock offense, sliding a hand into Athelstan’s hair. He closed his fist around a few locks and lightly pulled on them. “Are you saying you would rather sleep than enjoy my company?”
“Can’t I do both?” Athelstan replied. “You can stay here, and we can get some sleep. Even you must be tired, after that.”
Ragnar seemed to consider this. “All right,” he said after a few moments had passed. “When I am ready for more, I will wake you up again.”
Athelstan groaned in dismay, pushing away from Ragnar, who had begun quietly laughing. “If you wake me up again tonight, I will kill you,” Athelstan told him as he rolled to his side, facing away from Ragnar. “I may be a mediocre fighter, but I swear I’ll find a way.”
Ragnar rolled with him, throwing an arm possessively over his ribcage. Ragnar rested his bearded chin on Athelstan’s shoulder. “Did you not say you would do anything I asked?”
“I’m going to regret that, aren’t I,” Athelstan murmured into the blankets.
“Perhaps,” Ragnar said, pressing a light kiss to Athelstan’s bare shoulder. “But not tonight.”
“Good,” Athelstan managed to say. His eyelids were extremely heavy. “You may demand my love again starting tomorrow.”
Athelstan felt Ragnar go still, as though he’d said something wrong, and he supposed he might have, but he was too sleepy to care.
“I will ask for it tomorrow, make no mistake,” Ragnar whispered back. “And perhaps the next day. And the next.”
Athelstan smiled to himself as Ragnar’s arm tightened around him. The room was gradually getting lighter; it was nearly dawn.
“Look, priest,” Athelstan distantly heard Ragnar whisper to him as he drifted off to sleep. “The sunrise. It is tomorrow.”
“Priest… Priest?”