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The first few times it happens, he manages to roll over and ignore it. His nightmares, his fear, his trepidation and anxiety keep him from paying much attention to the wet sounds of their bodies and the rough sounds of their moans. He is frightened of these strange, savage people, and the sight of their lovemaking brings him no comfort.
But once he gets used to his new life, once some of his fear dissolves into acceptance, he can't help the way he catches each and every sound they make. He refuses to look out of shame, shame that burns deep within his soul as he prays for escape from these heathens.
The woman, Lagertha, with her braided hair and her fierce eyes and her womanly curves, she is the most tempting creature he has come across. He looks at her and understands why he must be kept in seclusion, far from the fairer sex. Her beauty and strength stirs within him terrible, indecent feelings ever since the night she and her husband beckoned him to share their bed.
She is a woman who demands respect and inspires admiration. He fears he may not be able to deny her should she call him to bed her again, alongside her husband.
Her husband.
Now that's a completely different problem.
The guilt he feels for lusting after a beautiful woman is nothing like the self-loathing he feels when he lusts after her husband.
Ragnar's hands upon his body are rough, as he would expect. They are not mean, not anymore, but they are not entirely friendly either. He comes to understand that this is the way men show affection here, like rowdy young boys. He is not accustomed to how tactile Ragnar is, how he is always being touched by those strong, warm hands.
There is some strange tension between them ever since Ragnar spared his life. It is almost as if he has been claimed, as if he is property to be owned.
That thought sends another jolt of fear through him. His master is God, not some barbaric heathen who stole his life away.
He tells himself that, every night in prayer. But he knows, in the back of his mind, if Ragnar asked something of him, he would not be able to deny the man. He would fall to his knees in veneration if Ragnar asked. Not out of fear, but out of a humiliating sort of pleasure.
Shame almost keeps him from pleading with his Lord for forgiveness, but he must atone for these horrible thoughts.
-
Lagertha gasps, Ragnar grunts, and Athelstan tries his hardest to not surrender to the demons fighting to drag him to Hell.
Those two are fucking like beasts, hard and fast and rough. Athelstan wonders if they'd notice him slipping out, if he could excuse himself and just sleep with the animals under the stars. The rope chaffing against his neck reminds him that he is a slave in this household, not a family member, not a guest. His masters may be kinder than many he has encountered in this strange land, but they are capable of terrible things. The smell of smoke that clings to his memory, the ash and rubble that must be what remains of the monastery, these things keep him on his toes.
An ecstatic scream drags him from his thoughts, and his cock throbs in response. Against better judgement, he glances at the pair from where he lays on the floor. Ragnar rolls his hips at a hard, steady pace and Lagertha shows her appreciation in the way she moans and rakes her fingernails down his sweat-soaked back.
Ragnar's hand curls around the curve of Lagertha's hip, holding her steady. His fingers, splayed wide on her soft skin look, like they're beckoning Athelstan, and two awful thoughts enter his mind:
I want to touch her like that.
I want him to touch me like that.
Athelstan squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to make a sound. He ignores the swelling of his cock between his legs as a litany of prayer spills forward from his mouth. The couple would probably be able to hear his frantic whispers if they weren't otherwise occupied. He can feel hellfire licking at his heels each time the smack of skin on skin rings though the room.
The urge to give in in almost overwhelming, but he has resisted temptation all his life. His Lord is testing him, and he can prevail, he will –
And then they both reach the height of their pleasure, dragging more immoral desires to the forefront of Athelstan's mind.
Their climax is a knife through his chest, like they're reaching inside of him and pulling his soul away from God. Prayer falls away from him as his voice begins to tremble. His masters laugh and sigh and stretch and embrace each other in a way so different from before. They mutter odd words, words of affection, but the rasp in their voices feels like fingertips teasing Athelstan's body.
Their words are soft and loving, but the stench of sex is heavy in the air. Athelstan refuses to touch himself, even as his cock aches with neglect.
Arousal like this is completely new to him, even as a boy he never allowed himself to go quite this far. He's so hard now that it's unbearable, it almost hurts. When he closes his eyes he can see the arch of Lagertha's back, the heat in Ragnar's eyes, the heat that is consuming him, the heat that makes him fight the urge to grind his hips down against the furs underneath him and –
“Priest.”
Athelstan gasps.
Ragnar recoils a bit. “You are panting like a dog,” he says, and there is laugher in his voice. There is always laughter in his voice. “Is there something wrong with you?”
“Night terrors,” Athelstan responds. His words are tight and clipped, like he's trying to say leave me alone without speaking out of turn.
Ragnar kneels next to him and Athelstan tries his best to hide the way his trousers are tenting without giving himself away. There is a moment of silence before Athelstan asks, “Should you not be with your wife?”
“She sleeps,” Ragnar says, and looks back at where she is slumbering in their bed. He turns back to Athelstan and asks, “Do you think her beautiful?”
Athelstan pauses a moment, unsure of what to say. He stammers out an of course, because she is.
“And what of me,” Ragnar grins, “Am I beautiful?”
He peers down at Athelstan, who has to look away for fear of being burned by those eyes. Athelstan considers telling Ragnar that all God's creatures are beautiful, but he doesn't dare speak of his Lord when his cock responds so eagerly to the sound of this heathen's voice.
Ragnar's hand runs down his calf, and he almost cries out in surprise. Instead, he goes rigid and listens as Ragnar asks, “Have you ever even had a woman before?”
“I have taken a vow of chastity,” Athelstan swallows thickly, “And I have never indulged in the sins of the flesh.”
“Sins?” disbelief colors Ragnar's voice, “Your god would deny you the right to pleasure?”
“I do not need – ah,” Athelstan tenses as Ragnar leans in close. He has been drinking, that much is clear from the smell of his breath. He's not drunk, though, not quite. Athelstan does his best to curl up into a ball and asks his Lord to deliver him from this horrible temptation.
The temptation to beg this man to touch him.
Never in his life has he felt so filthy, so unholy.
And then a hand moves to his thigh, and Ragnar asks, “You've never even taken your cock in hand, have you?”
“No,” Athelstan whispers, barely loud enough to hear. His eyes are closed tightly and he can almost feel the earth splitting beneath his body, the demons scrambling up to pull him down.
“Then do it,” Ragnar orders, “Now.”
Shock sends Athelstan's eye open. He tries to plead without saying any words, tries to make his distress known. He can do this, he knows he can. He can fight against these sinful desires. His mouth works wordlessly, unable to articulate what he thinks. While his soul begs for escape from this place, his cock begs release.
Ragnar tires of silent prayer. He hefts Athelstan up by the rope around his neck and holds his face steady with one large hand. Athelstan flinches, fearing Ragnar's wrath, but a blow never comes. Instead, Ragnar pushes Athelstan's tunic up and hooks a finger in the front of his trousers.
No doubt Ragnar feels the hardness just under his hand. He smiles at the trembling boy before him and says, “Touch yourself.”
A broken moan is all Athelstan can manage. No prayer, no resistance, just a sound coated in shame and arousal.
Ragnar pushes the pants away and hums in a pleased sort of way. He runs his fingers down Athelstan's stomach before leaning back and saying, “I'm waiting, priest.”
Athelstan groans then, bracing his hands on his bare thighs. Ragnar crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow and fuck, he expects a show.
Slowly, Athelstan's fingers creep up his thighs. His cock juts forward from under the hem of his tunic, and he prays that he may one day be absolved for what he is about to do.
The first touch is light, barely there, yet it startles a small gasp out of Athelstan. There's precome leaking from the tip of his cock and he wipes the pad of his finger over it, just to see how it feels.
“Usually,” Ragnar teases, “you garner more satisfying results if you use your whole hand, and not just one finger.”
“I know,” Athelstan bites out, and glares as best he can through his discomfort and shame. Ragnar's eyes are all over him, moving from his cock to his face. He looks about ready to pounce, and that thought makes Athelstan jerk forward and wrap the rest of his fingers around his prick.
“That's better,” Ragnar says, his voice a low murmur. Athelstan bites his lip and tries not to bask in the praise, but he can't help the way his breath hitches and his hand squeezes tighter at the words. He runs his palm along his cock in awkward, uneven strokes that are far too dry. The liquid at the tip of his cock doesn't make the slide quite smooth enough, but he can't stop.
“Use spit,” Ragnar says, and Athelstan gives him a look of pure mortification. He adds, “It'll make it easier.”
Ragnar mimes spitting into his hand and looks expectantly at Athelstan, who still can't quite believe that he's kneeling in front of another man while running his hand over his cock. Here he is, shamelessly displaying himself to the barbarian who slaughtered his brothers, burned down his home, and took him away to serve as something less than a man, as a slave. He is owned.
There is no reason why that should make him moan and jerk his hips, but it does anyway.
Ragnar smiles and crawls forward, forcing Athelstan to look at him with callused fingers on his chin. “What's going on in that head of yours, priest?” he asks, and runs his thumb across Athelstan's lips.
The lust thrumming beneath Athelstan's skin turns him into some kind of carnal animal, and he gently bites the thumb before it can get away. In the back of his mind, he is screaming. He's screaming at Ragnar for being infuriating and arousing, for reducing him to a living incarnation of sin. He's screaming at his cock for being a dirty traitor and giving in. He's screaming at his God for allowing something like this to happen to him. He's screaming at himself for sucking with depraved enthusiasm on that thick thumb.
Ragnar pulls away, and Athelstan thinks he has disgusted the man with his shameful desire. A hand comes up and squeezes his jaw with little gentleness and it gives him hope that he is going to receive the punishment he deserves, even as his hand speeds up on his cock. But when a finger curls around his chin and pushes into his mouth, he realizes that Ragnar is not going to give him penance, but pleasure.
“Do you like it when I touch you?” Ragnar asks, and Athelstan moans around the finger in his mouth. He's fucking his hand now, frantically rolling his hips into his fist. Demons are ravaging his soul, taking him apart from the inside. It's awful, it's terrible, but it's so good.
His thighs begin to tremble and his rhythm falters. Ragnar removes his finger and puts his lips to Athelstan's ear, muttering, “If you want me to touch you, all you have to do is ask.”
Through heaving breaths, Athelstan chokes out, “Please, touch me.”
With one hand still holding Athelstan's head still, not allowing him to look away, Ragnar spits in his free hand and wraps it around Athelstan's cock. He strokes hard and fast as Athelstan moves to cling to his shoulders, praying for the fire in Ragnar's gaze to consume him once and for all.
He's being too loud, too eager. Ragnar's hand upon him is rough in all the right ways, pulling him away from himself and allowing him to ride on the crest of pleasure. In that moment he is drunk on lust, and unafraid for his soul.
When his orgasm tears through him, he forgets his guilt. Ragnar crowds in closely as Athelstan pants and mewls and writhes. He's coming apart again, but the demons are kind this time. They caress him with soft fingers instead of digging into him with sharp claws. He feels ecstasy like he has never felt before, and it's like laying eyes upon God.
Perhaps, Athelstan thinks, Ragnar and Lagertha are not demons. Perhaps they were not sent from Hell to turn me away from God. Perhaps they were given to me, to show me love.
And then he comes back to himself, with his face buried in Ragnar's neck and his cheeks wet with stray tears. One warm hand roams across his back, easing him back down from euphoria. He's still holding onto Ragnar's shoulders like he fears he might be dragged away.
He lifts his head once his breathing has evened out a bit. Ragnar smiles at him and thumbs away some of the wetness on his face. He lifts his idle hand to show Athelstan the mess he's made, and laughs when the priest gasps and averts his eyes.
Athelstan isn't surprised when the fingertips press against his lips. He opens his mouth and fuck, it's lewd, it's filthy, but he makes sure there isn't a drop of come left on Ragnar's hand when he's finished. He's conflicted because he has commited such awful acts, but there is something comforting and peaceful in the way Ragnar takes care of him in the aftermath of his sin.
Sin, because that's what this is. He has allowed darkness into his heart.
Regret starts to churn his stomach and invade his thoughts when suddenly Lagertha speaks up and says, “What do you think you're doing, boys?”
Ragnar wraps an arm around Athelstan and beams at his wife. “Bonding,” is all he says, and she rolls her eyes.
“Can you not see that he is uncomfortable?” she asks, and Athelstan can't help but smile softly at her tone.
“I was simply teaching him about certain wonders he has been deprived of all his life,” Ragnar says. He sounds more like a chastised child than a barbarous heathen. Warmth blooms in Athelstan's chest as they bicker.
“At least bring him up here,” she says. “Allow one of those wonders to be a warm bed instead of a mat upon the floor.”
Athelstan almost objects, fearing that they'll try to corrupt him farther, but he doesn't fight when Ragnar pulls him to his feet and gently shoves him toward the bed. Lagertha reaches out and tugs him close, dragging him under the furs and holding him in her arms.
He isn't sure what to do with his hands. One stays tucked next to his stomach and the other awkwardly curls around Lagertha's hip. Her naked skin is oddly comforting, not arousing as he had feared. It's unexpectedly pleasant.
What he expects less, however, is the way Ragnar crawls into bed behind him. Athelstan thinks it's a drunken mistake until Ragnar reaches across his body to tuck Lagertha's hair behind her ear and then kisses the back of his neck.
Silence falls over the North. Athelstan mutters one final prayer and lets these demons lull him to sleep. Ragnar drags a lazy hand up under his tunic and Lagertha kisses his forehead, showing him an odd sort of tenderness.
It frightens him to think that he is being pulled away from God. But there is no darkness here, not yet, so he allows himself to be enveloped in the warm arms around him.