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It hasn’t been long since Athelstan took his place in Ragnar’s household. His time watching over Ragnar and Lagertha’s children is surprisingly uneventful. Aside from Bjorn’s reluctance to accept his authority (and to be quite honest, Athelstan himself doesn’t believe in his own authority so it’s hard for him to order the children to do anything with any amount of confidence), it goes alright.
And Gyda likes him, adores him for some reason that Athelstan can’t fathom, so Bjorn falls into line eventually.
But the entire time Ragnar and Lagertha are gone, they are on his mind. He cannot help but replay their invitation to him over and over again.
“Come and join us, priest.”
“Come on.”
Both were so eager, and it had been harder than Athelstan likes to admit to turn them down.
“Don’t you want to?” No. Yes. Maybe.
“Who would know?” God. Nobody. Me.
“What if your god looked the other way?” He already has.
The swelling of his cock underneath his robes is not a sensation he is accustomed to. Athelstan is a good monk, a good Christian. He is devoted and pure; willed away any prior temptation with prayer and penance.
But no matter how hard he tries, he cannot forget the open looks of lust on his captors’ faces, Ragnar’s unashamed nakedness, Lagertha’s teasing, the flash of her bare thigh, the promise of more to come. He clears his throat and shakes his head, attempting to physically cast off his sin. He still doesn’t touch.
Bjorn and Gyda’s shrieking laughter just outside is what finally snaps him out of it and he stands and straightens, taking a cool drink of water. It gets harder to resist though, every time. Once he even catches his hand creeping up his thigh before he stops himself. That time he goes to the river, coursing and cold, to bathe himself. The freezing temperature quickly banishes any possibility of an erection, and the running water, with its symbolism of purification, gives him mental fortification.
This is all lost, however, when Ragnar and Lagertha finally return. Lagertha has some newfound respect for him, upon the happy and healthy faces of her children after her absence. She is kind to Athelstan, tough exterior belied by her comforting hand on his shoulder (and he refuses to admit that he leans into her touch) and he is afraid of the conviction of his feelings for her.
But Ragnar, Ragnar is a different beast altogether.
Athelstan doesn’t trust him, not entirely, not after his forced intoxication at Ragnar’s hands. After he was tricked into providing Ragnar the information he needed to wreak more destruction and death upon Athelstan’s home country. But he cannot deny the visceral reactions he gets when Ragnar is around him; it feels like a punch, and Athelstan finds himself staggering back, breathless.
Athelstan is not stupid. He can feel the combined gazes of Ragnar and Lagertha on him, knows that they are not finished with him, know that they still want him. It is baffling to him, though not wholly unwelcome (but that, he also refuses to admit to himself). If Lagertha’s strategy is comfort, to lure him in with affection, then Ragnar’s strategy is pure sexual temptation, to hammer at Athelstan’s defenses until he breaks.
Wherever Athelstan is, Ragnar is behind him, dropping untoward comments, not-so-accidentally brushing his groin against Athelstan’s ass. Whenever it happens, Athelstan stiffens, back rigid, swallowing hard.
It’s too much, it’s far too much, and it is only a matter of time until Athelstan gives in. He wants to give in.
One night, Athelstan has a problem that will not go away. He tries prayer, he tries digging his nails into his palms, hoping the pain will distract him from his arousal. It doesn’t. He cannot get up to go to the river, cannot risk anyone waking to see the tent his cock has made in the long, white (and now quite dirty and stained) shirt he wears underneath his robes, and to bed.
He has been so good, so good but he cannot help himself anymore, and every shift of his muscles brings the rough cloth dragging over his cock and it is agony. He turns his head to the side, making sure the family is asleep, and makes the mistake of catching sight of Lagertha and Ragnar embraced in their bed. Lagertha’s breasts are bared proudly, and the strong curve of Ragnar’s behind is highlighted in the light of the moon. Athelstan’s hand is underneath his shirt before he can stop it.
It is over embarrassingly quickly, and he is embarrassingly loud. He whimpers when his hand closes around himself, and he doesn’t really know how to do this, but he finds a clumsy rhythm and brings himself off without much effort. The pleasure that snakes up his spine, curls around each and every nerve ending, and seeps hot across his abdomen is the sweetest thing he has ever encountered.
He lies back, chest heaving though the effort he’s expended had not been much, and marvels. There is a patch of wetness on him now, on his hand and stomach, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he wipes it off hastily with his shirt and resolves to bathe himself extra vigorously the next day, and to wash his clothes as well. He moves onto his side and shuts his eyes tightly, and sleep comes too quickly for him to feel any guilt. He is satisfied.
The feeling however, does not last when he wakes the next morning.
He immediately remembers what he’s done, and he cannot look anyone in the eyes, not the children, and certainly not their parents. He is convinced they can see the evidence upon him, though he is careful to hide it, and his cheeks darken whenever their looks linger.
Breakfast is eaten but Athelstan barely touches it, and Lagertha senses something is wrong and sends the children off for the day. But he does not want to be confronted, because he knows he will not be able to lie convincingly, so he stammers his excuses and makes for the river. It has become his comfort, these days. Nobody stops him, nobody chases after him.
He wades into the water fully clothed, and it is not until he is entirely submerged that he takes his robes off. He spends the better part of an hour scrubbing at the rough cloth, then himself, until his skin is reddened and irritated with too much attention. He hangs his robes to dry on an outlying branch of a tree, and swims as they dry. He does not trust himself to leave the safety of the water yet.
As the river has become his comfort, so has swimming. He cuts across the water, thoughts chased from his brain as he numbs himself with the cold, arms propelling him forward in a repetitive motion. The current is not so strong here, not that it would have mattered. Athelstan lived by the sea, and one of the few pleasures he partook in for himself was the ocean. He swam whenever he did not have duties to attend to, often awoke far earlier than any of his brothers so that he might have an hour of solitude in the brine.
Finally he cannot avoid it any longer, and reluctantly dresses himself and goes back to his (is it really his? Does he have any right or claim to it, even now?) home.
Lagertha is gone, and it is only Ragnar who awaits him.
Athelstan does his best to ignore him, and sits by the loom, as Lagertha has begun teaching him how to use it alongside Gyda. Athelstan does not consider himself above any kind of work, though Ragnar and Bjorn scoff when they see him tangled in threads. It is a small blow to his ego that Gyda excels in something he does not, as she is not yet even ten years of age. For a little while, there is silence, and Athelstan thinks that maybe he will not be subject to Ragnar’s teasing today.
He is wrong.
“How often do you pleasure yourself, priest?” Ragnar asks, and Athelstan’s hand jerks where it was steady before, and he almost ruins the cloth he was making. He uses that as an excuse to not look at Ragnar, busies himself with sorting out the threads.
“I told you once before,” Athelstan says. “I took a vow of celibacy, and I honor my vows. I haven’t, I wouldn’t-” but Athelstan cannot continue, because his words now ring false in his ears.
He pictures the smirk on Ragnar’s face, only pictures because he still will not look at him. “You aren’t in the monastery now,” Ragnar offers. “You never coveted those around you?” Ragnar’s voice takes on something as he speaks, something that Athelstan tries to steel himself against. He can feel himself though, cock stirring and he’s grateful he’s in his robes, heavy wool masking the bulge. He shifts and tries to adjust himself, but he knows that Ragnar notices. There is a twist in his gut but he still he denies it.
“Most of my brothers were older,” Athelstan asserts. “There was no lust to be found in the grey hair and wrinkles of my peers.”
“There were none that drew your attention? None so young as yourself?” Ragnar sounds surprised.
“I was among the youngest,” Athelstan lies, counting on Ragnar to not remember the handsome faces of some of the youths slain the day he was captured. “It had been some time since we were sent a boy interested in chastity.”
But Ragnar is undeterred. “And now?” He asks.
Athelstan looks up, uncomprehending.
“There are many here for you to find lust in. Men and women, we have very little of your Christian modesty. There is much you could have seen. Much you have seen.”
Athelstan resolutely does not answer. He knows what happened last night, feels the shame of his deed heavy on his conscience. And he knows that Ragnar must have heard him, tiny little mewls in the dark, his inexperienced hands fumbling for a release. He knows that Ragnar is playing him, but Athelstan wants to play along, wants to find that release again, so badly. He has given into temptation once already, and now that seal has been broken, it is all too easy to go back for more.
“And there is me.” Ragnar says, and now Athelstan looks up at him, and wishes he hadn’t. Ragnar’s eyes are dark and commanding, and Athelstan cannot look away.
“What about you?” Athelstan replies, and his voice wavers, just a little.
“I’ve seen your eyes, priest. They see all, and they like what they see. Was it me you were picturing last night when you placed your hands on your cock? Did you want my fingers on you, in you?”
And now Athelstan gasps. His arousal is throbbing now, and he is but clay to be molded in Ragnar’s hands. His resolve is gone, and he is glad to be rid of it.
“Show me,” Ragnar commands, and Athelstan has always been a good boy, always did what he was told, and he does so now, spreading his legs. “Hitch up your robes,” Ragnar says, and Athelstan does, exposing first his calves, his knees, his thighs, and then his cock, which is flushed and straining.
“Show me how you touched yourself last night.”
Athelstan’s hands creep hesitantly towards his erection and he’s never learned to tease himself, to hold back and prolong his arousal so that the pleasure is so much sweeter later, so he just goes for it, grips himself tightly and begins to pump.
Ragnar lets out a hum of approval, but it is drowned out by Athelstan’s own moans. He wishes he could keep quiet but it feels so good, and he is just discovering himself, cannot sort through all these new sensations. His hand speeds, and he tips his head back, baring his neck in submission. He can tell that Ragnar did not think he would actually do it, but here he is, legs spread wide, cock disappearing into his fist.
Ragnar, for his part, is impressed. He wants to touch, wants to manhandle Athelstan, roughen him, show him what a touch on his cock should really feel like, but they’ll have plenty of time for that later. Now it is just Athelstan’s hand on himself, and Ragnar should maybe feel bad about the corruption of so pure a being, but shame is as foreign to him as the land that the monk came from, so he only licks his lips and watches avidly, ignoring, for now, the swell of his own cock.
Athelstan is letting out breathy moans, much louder than what he permitted himself last night. His eyes flutter shut and he bites down on his bottom lip hard. His other hand, the one not fisting his cock, won’t stay still. First he grabs hard the chair he’s sitting on, then balls his fingers in robe, then he scratches grooves into this thigh as he tries futilely to stave off his orgasm. He doesn’t have enough practice with this though, not nearly enough self-control, and his hips lift and he bucks into his grip, and the moans are coming faster, and his rhythm is unsteady. He whimpers, eyes shut tightly, but Ragnar says, “Look at me,” and Athelstan does, eyes locking on Ragnar’s own, and he comes hard, mouth open and hips jerking.
The sound he makes is almost inhuman, and he spurts hot and fast, come slicking his hand even more, and he milks himself through it, until he is practically sobbing, but it feels so fucking good and he does not want to stop. He must though, when his cock is softened and the sensations are painful.
He is panting hard when he comes back to himself, and his release is on his hand, and he doesn’t know why he does it, but he brings his palm up to his mouth and draws his tongue slowly across it, looking at Ragnar all the while. It is bitter and warm, and he’s not sure if he likes it at all, but he can tell that Ragnar does, and that’s enough. Ragnar takes one last look at Athelstan, thoroughly debauched and boneless on the chair, and stalks into his bedchamber.
For the first time, Athelstan feels like he has the upper hand, like he has gained a tiny modicum of control in his life. That, of course, if when he hears Ragnar in the other room, groaning theatrically as he does what Athelstan has just done, only much louder and much, much longer, and by the end of it, Athelstan is hard once more and what he control he thought he had is gone.
So he brings his hand to his cock again and tries to draw it out as Ragnar has, and feels no remorse when he comes again, only mind-numbing pleasure.