Work Text:
As a result of the violent environment in which he grew up, Thorfinn's sexual awakening was strange to say the least.
He was fifteen the first time he got an erection.
Usually, she slept on the boat that belonged to his father. But this winter was particularly cold, and if he died of hypothermia, he couldn't kill Askeladd. Reluctantly, he agreed to sleep in one of the cabins. He hated this place, as much as he hated everything Askeladd offered him.
... but he couldn't deny that, after years of sleeping on the ship's wooden planks, lying down on a soft surface was pleasant.
As a result of the massacre that occurred in the last village they looted, he had new scars. Thorfinn undressed with the intention of cleaning his wounds.
Most were superficial, but one was especially painful. The cut ran diagonally across the chest, dangerously close to the left nipple. The skin around it was red and tender, and he squeaked when he placed the wet cloth over it.
"Shit."
He didn't usually allow himself to show weakness, but protected by those four walls, he complained throughout the entire process.
When he finished, he lay back down on the blankets. The small stove in the center of the cabin maintained a comfortable temperature inside.
Thorfinn traced the cut on his chest with his index finger, feeling how the outline of the wound was slightly swollen. Doing so caused him pain, but he continued. He felt the texture of the scab forming, and in a slip, he drew a line directly over the nipple. The burning spread to the lower part of his body, eventually reaching his crotch. It was then that he realized that pain could be pleasurable in certain circumstances.
Thorfinn felt sick. He had seen the other Vikings bathing in the river, and dicks were not a "nice" thing. They were large or small, some similar to mushrooms, and full of hairs at the base. And worst of all: they used them to rape women, girls... and boys. Thorfinn told himself that he was lucky that none of them tried to take advantage of him when he was still too young to face them on equal terms.
Of course, Thorfinn knew what a 'wank' was. He had heard the barbarians talk about it, but he was too busy getting stronger to achieve his only goal.
... however, having a tent in the pants was annoying. How long would he have to wait until he returned to his normal state?
Thorfinn reached his right hand into his black pants, grabbing his cock. He let go of himself almost immediately, surprised by how sensitive it was, but he touched it again. He closed his fist around the circumference, and performed a back-and-forth motion. Up and down.
Once, twice, three times, until, on the fourth, he felt the urge to thrust his hips into his own fist. It felt good, I just needed a little more... so, what was he supposed to think about while doing that? in who?
"Hey, Thorfinn! Why don't you come drink with us? You're all grown up now. Come on, come on." Askeladd walked on, as if nothing had happened.
And Thorfinn came.
He pulled his hand away, horrified not only because the mental image of that bald man accompanied his orgasm, but because he thought he had peed himself. But the liquid on his hand didn't look like urine. It was white and thick, similar to the snot that dripped from his nose when he caught a cold.
"How fucking disgusting."
He wiped himself on the blankets. They weren't his, after all.
Fucking bald. The old man didn't even need to make an effort to continue screwing up his life.