Work Text:
Kattegat's halls were warm and golden, bathed with the light of the fire, though snowflakes fell in cold, fat drifts outside the walls. The sounds of children laughing, of men and women flirting and drinking and spinning tales of glory, wrapped around Athelstan like a snug fur. These people were as a balm upon the wounds of his spirit. At one time he might have been so bold as to call them his people. Sometimes he woke in the night wondering which god had set the crucifixion in his path, and which had sent a king to stop it - for the both had taught him that this, not what he'd left behind in England, was his home.
The feel of Ragnar's touch lingered on his palm, tingling over the edge of the ragged scar punched through the center of it. Ragnar still walked at his shoulder, close enough for the heat of his body to travel the scant space between them. When Athelstan made to sit again, Ragnar threw an arm around his shoulders, hooking a broad, callused hand at the crook of his throat. "You have not answered my question."
The words were breathed into Athelstan's ear, and he did not try to hold back the quickening of his breath. He did not, as he once might have, think on questions of Ragnar's faithfulness to his wife. Ragnar was a law unto himself, and would have what he wished no matter who thought ill of it. "You and Lagertha no longer share a bed," he said, his mouth pulling sideways in a tiny, teasing smile.
"And what of my bed, Athelstan?" Ragnar asked. "Will you share it with me?"
Athelstan could hardly remember the time when he feared this man, with his eyes bright as the winter's sky and a wicked curve to his mouth, tempting his faith and testing his loyalty. Ragnar had freed him, taught him to fight, given him the care of his children, had let him go in England though he plainly did not wish it. Ragnar had welcomed him back with a smile and an embrace, had brought him back to his halls as if he had never left. Ragnar was his king now, and though Athelstan had lately been in the service of another king, Ragnar's hungry looks had not the dark gloating in them of King Ecbert's, as if Athelstan was a prize the man had won. Ragnar had not looked at him like that in a very long time.
And though they had never lain together, Athelstan would not bear false witness in his heart and pretend he had not thought of Ragnar's bared skin above his, the pleasure they might find in one another. He searched himself for guilt and found none. Ragnar drew him like a lodestone, and a desire to give himself to this man, to his king, burned low in his belly.
"Yes, Ragnar, I will share your bed," he said, and was quite gratified to see Ragnar's eyes widen in surprise, the wicked twist of his lips broadening into a smile of true joy, white teeth flashing in the light of the fire.
"Do you no longer keep your vows to your god, then?" he asked, even as he steered Athelstan around the benches. He was not leading the way to his marriage bed, for which Athelstan felt not a small measure of relief, but to the bed where he slept when Aslaug cradled Ivar through the night.
"I have not violated them since Uppsala," Athelstan said.
"King Ecbert did not desire you?" Ragnar's eyes flicked over his face, down his chest.
A flush climbed Athelstan's neck and settled in his cheeks. "If he did, he never acted upon it."
"Not one person has caught your eye since then?" Ragnar closed the chamber door behind them, and Athelstan smiled to think of a time when he had laid on his humble palette on the other side of a flimsy divide, listening to Lagertha and Ragnar moving in the darkness.
He shrugged at Ragnar's question, acutely aware that they were now alone together. "Desire of that nature has never struck me easily."
Ragnar pulled away from him at that, his head tilting like it was wont to do when he considered Athelstan as if he were a raven himself, gazing through one eye. "Do you not desire me now?"
Athelstan flushed brighter, but he did not shy away as he had once done. "I do," he said. "I desire you because you are Ragnar."
Just as he had been when they stood in the doorway of the hall, Ragnar was gentle when the palms of his hands came to cradle Athelstan's face, one thumb sweeping over his cheek. He pulled, and Athelstan went with his direction as if Ragnar still had him on a lead rope. He was close enough that their lips almost brushed when he spoke. "Did you miss me while you were in England, Athelstan? Did you think of me?"
"Yes." Athelstan breathed the word into Ragnar's mouth, and Ragnar kissed him. His lips were warm and firm, his hands bracing on either side of Athelstan's face. When he pulled away, Athelstan leaned after him. Ragnar had said that Athelstan was his John the Baptist, but Athelstan felt as if Ragnar was the one he followed.
"Come to bed, Athelstan," Ragnar said, a smile on his lips, and Athelstan went without resistance or complaint. The bed was soft, a straw mattress heaped high with furs, but what warmed Athelstan was the heat of Ragnar's body bearing him down.
In all the times Athelstan had imagined what it would be like to lie with Ragnar, he did not imagine this. He did not imagine that Ragnar would be gentle, unbuckling his belt and drawing it aside even as they continued to kiss, a languid movement of mouths. Ragnar tasted like mead and smoke, heady on Athelstan's tongue.
Shyness, it seemed, had no place in Ragnar's bed, for Athelstan found he was reaching for the laces of Ragnar's leather tunic as if drawn to them, pulling them apart. He wanted Ragnar bared above him, wanted to feel their skin pressed together. It was something he could not remember ever wanting before; even in Uppsala, his mind had been muddled by mead and whatever Floki gave him, and he had felt as if he was dragged along back of a horse rather than making decisions for himself.
Ragnar's smile rarely left his face, and Athelstan had not expected it to be different in the bedchamber. He pushed Athelstan's fur-lined tunic off and threw it aside, then tugged the linen shirt off after it, all the while with that smile on his lips as if he was delighting in the bare flesh he uncovered. Athelstan tugged imploringly at Ragnar's own shirt, and he obligingly sat back, stripping to the waist before he settled his body back atop him.
The touch of him felt like Athelstan's first, hot sip of mead, burning down his throat to settle in his loins. Ragnar's fingers tangled in his hair, scraping over his scalp, and Athelstan drew his hands wonderingly over Ragnar's back. His fingers found every old scar, each swell of hard muscle. Ragnar drew away, stroking Athelstan's hair away from his forehead. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the tiny, near-invisible scars across Athelstan's brow.
"I do not understand your Christians," Ragnar said, his touch moving down Athelstan's arms to his hands, which Ragnar pulled to his mouth. He laid his lips over the crucifixion scars in turn, tender like an apology. "If they meant to kill you for being pagan, why should they do it as your Christ was killed? Would that not be a great honor?"
"An apostate is the most loathsome of sinners," Athelstan said. "I confess I do not know why they chose this punishment for me. In all my life, I have not heard of a man crucified for any sin, not by Christians. Perhaps they meant for me to find absolution on the cross."
Ragnar placed one more kiss over each of Athelstan's palms. "Perhaps they meant to sacrifice you to your god. That means you have twice escaped the sacrifice. A wise man would take that to mean the gods have plans for you."
"I believe I would be happier if they did not," Athelstan said. Ragnar was golden and magnificent above him, and he would much rather think of that, and not of pains past.
"We will talk no more of it," Ragnar said. "I have wanted you here too long to have gods in our bed."
Athelstan was grateful for that, but more grateful when Ragnar kissed him again. Every slow drag of their lips together, the scrape of beard over his jaw, inflamed his passions. Ragnar's hands never ceased moving, as if he wanted to caress every inch of Athelstan's skin. For his part, Athelstan held on to Ragnar's shoulders and gave himself over to desire, rutting his hips up to feel the hot drag of Ragnar's arousal on his own.
"Ah, Athelstan." Ragnar moved his mouth over Athelstan's cheek to the soft hollow behind his ear. Athelstan tipped his head back to encourage more touches, as just the light brush of Ragnar's lips there sent small shivers through him. "I still remember the frightened little priest I stole away from England. Look at you now." He shifted down, dropped to his elbows and trailed his tongue across Athelstan's skin, following the path his fingers had taken.
"Everything I am, you have made me," Athelstan said. His breath was growing shorter, coming in deep gasps. He pressed his chest into Ragnar's mouth. His eyes had fallen closed - now he opened them, moving his fingers to Ragnar's scalp to trace them over the inked markings. "You brought me into your home and gave me a family. You taught me to live. You freed me."
Ragnar looked up at him, the chilly blue of his eyes barely a ring around the black of their centers. "You say such dangerous things," he said, and pressed his palm to the swell of Athelstan's arousal through the cloth of his trousers. He had the drawstring opened and his trousers off in a trice, and Athelstan had barely the time to gather a breath before Ragnar closed his hand fully around the hard length of him.
Athelstan's eyes closed again and he groaned, pushing into Ragnar's grasp. The hand around him was warm, and the rough texture of Ragnar's palm caused him to roll his hips into the touch. Ragnar wrapped his other hand firm around Athelstan's thigh and pushed his legs open, never stopping the slow tug on him from root to tip. "Ragnar," Athelstan said, and then stopped, face aflame. He knew the words to ask what he wanted - warriors did not stay their tongues in their cups, and Athelstan had heard much bawdy talk about the way Ragnar looked at him, the things Ragnar would like to do to him - but he could not seem to voice them.
"I want to have you," Ragnar said. "I want to hear you say that again, in that way. I want to keep you."
It was so familiar it soothed him - I want, I want, I want. Ragnar always wanted, and Athelstan cupped Ragnar's jaw in his palms, an echo of the gesture before that kiss. "You have me. I want it - I want all of you."
A low growl tingled through Athelstan's fingers, and he was left gasping over again when Ragnar's touch vanished from his prick. He did not care to strain himself looking, content to lie back on the furs and accept whatever Ragnar gave him. There was the brief rustling of cloth, the sound of a seal cracking, and then Ragnar's lips were on his again, with Athelstan's knee settled in the crook of his elbow. Ragnar kissed him as if he was trying to breathe Athelstan's breath, his tongue wet and possessive.
Ragnar's palm and fingers were slick with something when they returned between his legs, not curling around his prick this time but cupping his stones. Athelstan spilled a garbled whine into Ragnar's mouth, and did not think twice about pressing eagerly against Ragnar's fingers when they slid lower still.
Athelstan's hands dug into warm flesh wherever he grasped. Ragnar was the only thing that anchored him, buoying him up when the softness of the furs and the hot flood of pleasure threatened to drown him. Ragnar pressed, and Athelstan had to break away from the soft slide of his kisses to gasp for breath. Ragnar had him pinned and spread open, now pushing his finger relentlessly inside, and Athelstan could not think of anything in this world he would rather have.
"Ragnar, Ragnar," he moaned, fevered like a benediction. Ragnar's tongue pressed flat over the beat of blood in his throat, and Athelstan moaned again at the thought of his life beneath Ragnar's teeth, the sound breaking into a stuttered shout of pleasure when Ragnar worked another finger into him. He twisted, and Athelstan felt himself opening around them.
"I waited so long for you, Athelstan," Ragnar whispered. "I watched you and wanted you, and I knew how you watched me, and I waited for you to come to me. You should have let me kill those who hurt you. If you had been dead when I returned to England, I would have killed them all."
The last was snarled in his ear, as vicious as the kiss that followed it was gentle, and Athelstan did not know whether Ragnar meant the men of Wessex or the men of their own land. He did know that the thought of Ragnar cleaving the skulls of the men who had hung him on that cross should not thrill through his blood like the surge of battle, but he was not ashamed of it any more than he was ashamed of the lust burning in him.
"I am here now," Athelstan said, once more shaping the words over Ragnar's lips. "Have me."
Ragnar growled again, biting at Athelstan's lip as he pulled his fingers away. He hitched Athelstan's leg up higher, spreading him wider, and sat back. Dazed, mouth throbbing from the press of Ragnar's lips, Athelstan opened his eyes to see Ragnar looking at him like he sometimes looked at the sea - as if he could never be without him. Then the hard, insistent length of him pressed in so slowly Athelstan felt as if he were being pulled in twain.
"You are beautiful," Ragnar said. It thrilled Athelstan to hear the rough rasp in his voice, to see the muscles of Ragnar's stomach quiver as he rocked his hips slowly, sliding himself into Athelstan's body until they were joined together completely. The feel of it was like the pull and burn of an untried muscle, a sensation Athelstan had become used to of late, and he found it was not difficult to push back against it.
"Ragnar please," Athelstan gasped, hardly knowing what he was pleading for, only that he was filled so, to bursting, and yet wanted more. Ragnar gave him more - he spread his palm across Athelstan's breast, his thumb tickling at the hollow between his collarbones, and thrust.
That first movement reminded Athelstan so of the rocking of a ship on the water, but though Ragnar had been gentle with him thus far, it seemed he was at the edge of his control. Athelstan could not take his eyes away from Ragnar, enthralled by the way his muscles bunched and shifted beneath his skin, the tremor in his jaw whenever he drew out slowly and then pushed back inside, the clouding of his gaze as it moved over Athelstan's body.
"Tell me you want more," Ragnar growled, his fingers digging hard into the yielding flesh of Athelstan's thigh - he would have bruises there, and he delighted in it, just as he delighted in the feel of being pried open and filled.
"Yes," he said. Ragnar lifted Athelstan's knee to his shoulder and bent over him once more, snapping his hips harder. "Ragnar!" Athelstan yelped, a jolt of purest pleasure surging through him from where Ragnar was seated deep inside. It came again, and again, leaving him overcome and lost in it, clinging to Ragnar's shoulders, his mouth open on soft sighs and breathless noises.
Ragnar moved the hand on his chest slowly down his belly to grasp Athelstan's forgotten prick once more, and now when Athelstan opened his eyes, Ragnar was as he had imagined, taking him hard and relentless, conquering his body. Athelstan felt something clawing closer, a tension winding through him from the base of his spine to his crown.
"Athelstan," Ragnar said, his voice breaking on a groan. "Come undone for me. Show me what you look like in your pleasure."
The tension broke, and Athelstan found his peak with a long, wavering cry. It was a feeling akin to warmth returning to a limb come in from the cold, a cresting wave of pleasure like the slow syrup of spring honey. He barely felt the splatter of his seed across his stomach, but he could see it, just as he could see Ragnar lift his stained fingers to his mouth and lick them clean. Ragnar's movements inside him prolonged the pleasure, drew it out until Athelstan was shaking and clutching at him, addled but determined to remain spread open for Ragnar's taking.
There was a small furrow in Ragnar's brow, a clench to his jaw that made the tendons stand out sharp on either side of his neck, and his blue eyes were wild, staring at Athelstan as if he yet could not believe this was truly happening. Athelstan pried his grip from Ragnar's shoulder and groped for his hand, twining their fingers together, languid and loose-limbed and barely coordinated. Ragnar's thrusts jarred through him, and an ache was beginning like the throb of a new wound, only discovered once the fever of battle was done. Athelstan could not stop the small sounds issuing from his throat, driven from him with every movement of Ragnar's hips against his.
Ragnar leaned further forward, bending him nearly double and wringing a high, thin noise from his throat. When he ground into Athelstan for the final time, deep and near-painful and perfect, he slid his tongue into Athelstan's open, gasping mouth, spreading the bitter-salt taste of spent seed between them. And if he growled something that sounded remarkably like "mine," Athelstan had no cause to object.
Spent and relaxed, Ragnar was heavy and warm, smelling of sweat and sex. Ragnar groaned and finally drew back, his soft prick slipping out, then rolled them onto their sides and wrapped his arms around Athelstan as if he was trying mold them together into one being.
"They will not harm you again," Ragnar said, low and sleepy into the crook of Athelstan's throat. "When we go again to England, I will be there to protect you - or Lagertha will be, when I cannot. I will not leave you alone again in that land."
"I would not wish to be so," Athelstan said. "You are my home."
Ragnar's embrace tightened around him, and then he was asleep, the warmth of his breath curling over Athelstan's skin. Soon after, Athelstan's lids grew heavy, wrapped up in Ragnar as he was. He felt as if he was sinking into Ragnar, surrounded by him and held tenderly to his chest, warm, contented, and above all, safe as he had ever been.