Work Text:
It is enchanting, Ragnar thinks, how Floki is in a constant state of motion. Whether it be small gestures or the way his oddly coloured eyes never settle, like flickering flames, dancing and breaking and reforming. Kohl ringed and dancing, eyes that see in to trees and souls, eyes that enthrall Ragnar.
Ragnar is quick and he is clever but Floki is quicker, cleverer, almost magically so. He sees things he should not, like a seer. If Floki were a woman he would be revered, a völur, but he is not, he cannot be. So he lives in his little hut alone and builds boats, the best boats Ragnar has ever seen. He has long wondered how Floki came to be so gifted, there are those who say he is descended from the Trickster, the Sly One (these are the ones that shun him - that whisper that Floki is no good, that he was sent to lead them astray) and Ragnar is inclined to agree with them, on their first point at least.
Floki must be descended from the gods in some manner.
Like Loki, only different.
It occurs to him sometimes how little he knows about the ship builder, how little knows about how Floki came to be - he recalls their first meeting, oh yes. They were young men then (not that they are by any measures old now) Floki had grasped his cheeks and looked deep in to his eyes and laughed before greeting him like an old friend. At the time Ragnar had been alarmed, concerned (not fearful, he is a warrior, he is never fearful) now though he thinks Floki had seen their friendship, had seen what they would be.
Even when he is curled in the ship that ferries them West his fingers are moving, drumming on the boards, winding together, tracing runes and swirls and patterns on to the wood below.
No, Floki is only still when Ragnar holds him so.
Pressing him down on the mats in Floki’s huts, or up against a tree, arms pinned. (Even then Ragnar fancies he can see the thoughts in Floki’s eyes, darting too quickly to catch.)
Floki digs his nails in to Ragnar’s back but he does not resist (it is shameful to allow oneself to be used as a woman would and Ragnar thinks that perhaps he should stop this but then he’ll glance at Floki’s eyes and realise he can not.) And Floki will giggle and groan and whisper things too quick and quiet for Ragnar to hear and when they’re done neither man will mention it.
It is just something they do.
And if Ragnar pins him down and whispers, “Stop,” Floki will comply. His eyes will flutter shut and he’ll go limp with a little sigh of what Ragnar thinks may be relief.
It must be tiring to be a child of the flame god, fire is always moving (so is the sea but the sea moves in rhythm, with purpose, fire is chaos and death and creation and heat, like Floki, like Loki, only different.) Ragnar is a man of the sea, Floki has told him so, has told him it is embedded in the blue of his eyes and the determination of his character. But Floki is definitely a creature of the flames - perhaps that is why he cannot swim.
Perhaps that is why when they come together Floki yields as the flames would to the water. Ragnar thinks it is natural for them to fall together, the world was born of chaos and death and it will end in chaos and death, in flames and flood and war.
He will not pretend that he does not enjoy holding down someone as alive as Floki (it is, after all, what drew him to his wife), he will not pretend that he believes this to be what the Gods want (though they must because he has not been punished by them for his transgressions.) It is not about love, though, it is about need.
It is about holding life down.
It is about those ember coloured eyes and the way Floki ripples like fire beneath him.
(It is about trying to hold life still to conquer it but Ragnar will never admit to that.)