Fic: Questions
Apr. 28th, 2013 12:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerSo after that totally scarring Vikings episode last week, there was clearly nothing to do but write fix-it fic. And by fix-it I totally mean "fic from before that episode," because I don't want to write a story in which Athelstan is all "WHAT THE FUCK, RAGNAR?" just yet, on the off-chance that they will actually deal with the whole human sacrifice thing next episode.
Although, uh, I'm not holding my breath that they will. In which case, there may in fact be a "WHAT THE FUCK, RAGNAR?" fic in my future.
For now, however! Have Athelstan asking "So if I joined you and Lagertha, what then?" and Ragnar being all "MY SEXUAL FANTASIES, LET ME SHOW YOU THEM." Except Athelstan keeps interrupting to ask more questions, like he does.
Fic: Questions
Fandom: Vikings (TV)
Pairing: Ragnar/Athelstan, Athelstan/Lagertha, Ragnar/Lagertha,
Rating: R
Disclaimer: still not mine
Summary: “So if your and Lagertha’s offer still stands. If I came to your bed. What would you - what would we do?”
Also at AO3, Question.
In the early spring, his stiff leg stretched out before him, Ragnar sat on a log not far from Floki’s cabin and whittled at a spoon. The ground was patchy as a fawn’s back with melted snow, and melting snow dripped off the trees, slow, and it soothed the fire that Ragnar felt, the urgency to move somehow against Earl Haraldson.
Soon, soon. He had walked all the way to this log today: soon his leg would be well enough to face the Earl.
It helped, too, that Athelstan sat beside him: there was a peacefulness to his priest, with his soft voice and shining eyes. He had been whittling too, but now he stared off into the trees, a line between his eyes, his work still in his hands.
Ragnar gave him a nudge. “Priest,” he said.
The priest started to whittle again, then faltered, and set his work inside entirely. “Ragnar,” he said, and hesitated.
It was unlike him. Ragnar’s priest asked after Ragnarok, all unknowing: he did not hesitate. “So then?” said Ragnar.
“I have been thinking,” the priest said, hesitating still. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs. “I have....” He paused again, looking into the trees as if for a sign: then steadied himself, looked at Ragnar again, and with his blue eyes steady on Ragnar’s face said, “So if your and Lagertha’s offer still stands. If I came to your bed. What would you - what would we do?”
Ragnar set aside his knife and the spoon he was whittling and wiped the wood shavings off his hands. He moved slowly, the more slowly to hide the sudden kindling of interest in his belly: he did not want to move too fast and startle Athelstan away like a deer. “So,” said Ragnar. “Are you thinking of taking our offer then?”
The priest’s eyes lowered for a moment, then he looked into Ragnar’s face again. “I am only asking,” he said.
“Asking,” said Ragnar. “You like your asking, priest. You ask about this, as you asked about Ragnarok?”
Athelstan’s eyes went a little wide. “Is it another thing you do not talk about? Is it as bad as all that?”
Ragnar gave a brief shout of laughter. “No, no,” he said, and gave his priest’s shoulder a friendly shove. “It would be very pleasant, priest.”
Athelstan’s face underwent one of its interesting twists. “Would you call me priest?” he asked.
“You would not like that?” Ragnar asked.
“No.”
His vows, perhaps. He would not like to be reminded of his vows if he came to their bed. Perhaps, Ragnar thought, if they had not kept on calling Athelstan “priest,” he might have forgot his vows long ago, and they might have had a warmer bed all winter. “Then we would call you Athelstan.”
Athelstan looked down at his hands, and Ragnar saw that he was smiling shyly, like a maiden with her first flirtation. Ragnar’s hand twitched with the desire to stroke Athelstan’s hair, but no, no, wait. If he pressed they might have Athelstan the once: but if he waited and let Athelstan come to him, then Athelstan would be theirs.
“So,” said Athelstan, still smiling at his hands. “So you would call me Athelstan. And what else would we do?”
Ragnar was a little puzzled what Athelstan wanted him to say: he and Lagertha did not plan how to fuck, they just did what felt good in the moment. “Well, it would depend,” he said.
“Depend on what?” Athelstan asked.
“Depend,” said Ragnar. “On how cold it is, and how well my leg has healed; for I have not been as much use to Lagertha as she likes. She would welcome you,” and Ragnar began to smile, imagining his golden wife beckoning their shy Athelstan. “She would lift off your shirt - or ask you to take it off - perhaps we would like to see you do it, eh?” And in his mind Ragnar saw shadows flickering over Athelstan’s chest in the firelight, muscles moving under his skin as he pulled his shirt over his head. His breath caught in his throat, and memories of Lagertha’s hitched breath echoed in his mind, the little gasp she made when she saw something she liked.
She would touch him: would press her sword hand against Athelstan’s flat stomach. Athelstan would hold his breath as she held her hand there, and she would not take it away until he breathed out in a gasp. “Can you imagine her hands on you, Athelstan?” he asked, and laid a hand on Athelstan’s wrist. The hair on Athelstan’s arm rose under his touch.
“I am...not supposed to touch women,” Athelstan said unsteadily.
“I could touch you instead,” Ragnar offered, stroking his thumb over his priest’s wristbone, and imagining his hands on Athelstan’s chest, pressing him back against the bed, Lagertha behind Ragnar, her breasts pressed against his back...
Athelstan pulled his hand away. “I do not know that would be any better,” he said, and licked his lips, looking down, shyer still. “Where would - where would she touch me?”
“It depends,” said Ragnar, still half in his dream, trailing dream-hands down Athelstan’s chest, over his stomach. He had never seen Athelstan naked, but doubtless he looked much like any other man. “Where would you like?”
Athelstan raised his head sharply. “So it would matter what I would like?”
“Of course. We would - ”
“But it is not ‘of course,’” Athelstan interrupted, with the stubbornness that was so much a part of him. “It’s never of much account what slaves want.”
“But you are not a slave,” said Ragnar, a little irritated at the interruption, for his firelit dream picture was fading into the sunlight. “We had decided that - do you not remember?” Athelstan blew out a breath, lifting his face to the sky, and Ragnar gave his shoulder a light shove to bring him back to the present. “It would matter, what you wanted; we would not touch you anywhere you did not like. But it is surprising, the things that give pleasure: Lagertha likes to bite, and it feels sweet from her lips.”
And Ragnar could see Lagertha and Athelstan together in his mind’s eye: her slim strong hands in his dark curls, her golden hair trailing on his skin as she kissed her way down his chest. He could hear, almost, the priest gasp as Lagertha’s breasts brushed against him. “And she would like you to touch her: she would lift your hands to her breasts. A woman’s skin is very smooth, did you know that, prie - Athelstan?” And Ragnar nudged Athelstan.
Athelstan sat very straight and stiff and almost trembling, like a plucked harp string. “Would you...” Athelstan’s voice was husky, quiet. “Would you kiss me, you two?”
“Would you want us to?” Ragnar asked, lowering his voice too and drawing closer to Athelstan.
Athelstan nodded. He bit his lips, his cheeks flushing. His hands clenched in his lap.
Rangar scooted over till he sat hard by Athelstan, close enough to feel the heat of his body but not quite touching. He lifted a hand to Athelstan’s chin, turning Athelstan’s face toward him, and ran his thumb over Athelstan’s lower lip. Athelstan swallowed, mouth opening slightly, and Ragnar cupped Athelstan’s jaw and put his face close. Athelstan’s swift ragged breath brushed his cheeks. “Do you want me to kiss you now?” Ragnar asked.
Athelstan’s eyes closed. He nodded, slightly at first, and then more firmly, fervently almost. “Yes?” Ragnar prompted, because he wanted to hear Athelstan say it - for Athelstan to hear himself say it.
“Yes,” said Athelstan, his voice mostly breath, and he ducked his head and pressed a kiss to Ragnar’s palm.
His eyelashes looked long against his cheeks. Ragnar kissed his eyelids first, and then his cheeks as they flushed deeper. “You’re pretty like that,” Ragnar teased, kissing Athelstan’s ear, and Athelstan bit Ragnar’s palm.
Ragnar laughed, delighted. So Athelstan had remembered Ragnar liked to be bitten, then: a swift study he would be. “All right,” Ragnar said, and slid his hand along Athelstan’s jawbone to curl around his neck, and kissed Athelstan on the mouth. Athelstan made a little sound, almost distressed, and Ragnar stroked his free hand over Athelstan’s shoulder, soothing. Athelstan’s hands were still clenched into fists.
Ragnar drew back, putting just a hair’s breadth between their lips so he could speak. “Use your hands,” he murmured, lips brushing Athelstan’s; “You can touch me.” Athelstan’s hands rose to Ragnar’s forearms, lightly at first, and tightening as Ragnar kissed him again. Athelstan’s lips parted without prompting. Ragnar gave an approving hum, and moved closer to Athelstan - and in so doing, jarred his own injured leg.
He drew back with a hiss, hand dropping from Athelstan’s hair to his leg - and saw that Lagertha was in the clearing, watching.
She leaned against a fir tree, arms crossed, half-smirking. Ragnar widened his eyes at her, like a naughty boy, and for a second she pressed her lips together against a laugh. But by the time Athelstan had followed Ragnar’s eyes and turned to see her, she had arranged her face almost to sternness. “Go back to the house, priest,” said Lagertha. “There’s dinner to get ready.”
Athelstan snatched up his half-whittled spoon and plunged into the trees. Lagertha watched him go, half-smiling, and turned that half-smile on Ragnar as she ambled over to him, hips swaying.
She did not settle on the log beside him, but settled herself on his good leg, and gave his bad leg the lightest of kicks. “So?” she said. “Have you been keeping our priest to yourself?”
“No,” said Ragnar, and kissed her swiftly. “He asked me what it would be like if he came to our bed, and I meant to show him what a fine thing that would be...but he is still is half-afraid his god will punish him if he touches a woman, I think.”
“And so? I would be happy to watch the two of you together, if it will bring him to our bed,” said Lagertha. “It has been cold.”
“Yes,” said Ragnar, smiling too; but then he sighed, regretful. “But I also want to watch you two.”
“Well,” said Lagertha. A smile lifted her lips, and she wrapped an arm around Ragnar’s neck and gave him another kiss, tongue darting out to trace his lips. “Then maybe I will have to show our priest some things of my own.”
Although, uh, I'm not holding my breath that they will. In which case, there may in fact be a "WHAT THE FUCK, RAGNAR?" fic in my future.
For now, however! Have Athelstan asking "So if I joined you and Lagertha, what then?" and Ragnar being all "MY SEXUAL FANTASIES, LET ME SHOW YOU THEM." Except Athelstan keeps interrupting to ask more questions, like he does.
Fic: Questions
Fandom: Vikings (TV)
Pairing: Ragnar/Athelstan, Athelstan/Lagertha, Ragnar/Lagertha,
Rating: R
Disclaimer: still not mine
Summary: “So if your and Lagertha’s offer still stands. If I came to your bed. What would you - what would we do?”
Also at AO3, Question.
In the early spring, his stiff leg stretched out before him, Ragnar sat on a log not far from Floki’s cabin and whittled at a spoon. The ground was patchy as a fawn’s back with melted snow, and melting snow dripped off the trees, slow, and it soothed the fire that Ragnar felt, the urgency to move somehow against Earl Haraldson.
Soon, soon. He had walked all the way to this log today: soon his leg would be well enough to face the Earl.
It helped, too, that Athelstan sat beside him: there was a peacefulness to his priest, with his soft voice and shining eyes. He had been whittling too, but now he stared off into the trees, a line between his eyes, his work still in his hands.
Ragnar gave him a nudge. “Priest,” he said.
The priest started to whittle again, then faltered, and set his work inside entirely. “Ragnar,” he said, and hesitated.
It was unlike him. Ragnar’s priest asked after Ragnarok, all unknowing: he did not hesitate. “So then?” said Ragnar.
“I have been thinking,” the priest said, hesitating still. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs. “I have....” He paused again, looking into the trees as if for a sign: then steadied himself, looked at Ragnar again, and with his blue eyes steady on Ragnar’s face said, “So if your and Lagertha’s offer still stands. If I came to your bed. What would you - what would we do?”
Ragnar set aside his knife and the spoon he was whittling and wiped the wood shavings off his hands. He moved slowly, the more slowly to hide the sudden kindling of interest in his belly: he did not want to move too fast and startle Athelstan away like a deer. “So,” said Ragnar. “Are you thinking of taking our offer then?”
The priest’s eyes lowered for a moment, then he looked into Ragnar’s face again. “I am only asking,” he said.
“Asking,” said Ragnar. “You like your asking, priest. You ask about this, as you asked about Ragnarok?”
Athelstan’s eyes went a little wide. “Is it another thing you do not talk about? Is it as bad as all that?”
Ragnar gave a brief shout of laughter. “No, no,” he said, and gave his priest’s shoulder a friendly shove. “It would be very pleasant, priest.”
Athelstan’s face underwent one of its interesting twists. “Would you call me priest?” he asked.
“You would not like that?” Ragnar asked.
“No.”
His vows, perhaps. He would not like to be reminded of his vows if he came to their bed. Perhaps, Ragnar thought, if they had not kept on calling Athelstan “priest,” he might have forgot his vows long ago, and they might have had a warmer bed all winter. “Then we would call you Athelstan.”
Athelstan looked down at his hands, and Ragnar saw that he was smiling shyly, like a maiden with her first flirtation. Ragnar’s hand twitched with the desire to stroke Athelstan’s hair, but no, no, wait. If he pressed they might have Athelstan the once: but if he waited and let Athelstan come to him, then Athelstan would be theirs.
“So,” said Athelstan, still smiling at his hands. “So you would call me Athelstan. And what else would we do?”
Ragnar was a little puzzled what Athelstan wanted him to say: he and Lagertha did not plan how to fuck, they just did what felt good in the moment. “Well, it would depend,” he said.
“Depend on what?” Athelstan asked.
“Depend,” said Ragnar. “On how cold it is, and how well my leg has healed; for I have not been as much use to Lagertha as she likes. She would welcome you,” and Ragnar began to smile, imagining his golden wife beckoning their shy Athelstan. “She would lift off your shirt - or ask you to take it off - perhaps we would like to see you do it, eh?” And in his mind Ragnar saw shadows flickering over Athelstan’s chest in the firelight, muscles moving under his skin as he pulled his shirt over his head. His breath caught in his throat, and memories of Lagertha’s hitched breath echoed in his mind, the little gasp she made when she saw something she liked.
She would touch him: would press her sword hand against Athelstan’s flat stomach. Athelstan would hold his breath as she held her hand there, and she would not take it away until he breathed out in a gasp. “Can you imagine her hands on you, Athelstan?” he asked, and laid a hand on Athelstan’s wrist. The hair on Athelstan’s arm rose under his touch.
“I am...not supposed to touch women,” Athelstan said unsteadily.
“I could touch you instead,” Ragnar offered, stroking his thumb over his priest’s wristbone, and imagining his hands on Athelstan’s chest, pressing him back against the bed, Lagertha behind Ragnar, her breasts pressed against his back...
Athelstan pulled his hand away. “I do not know that would be any better,” he said, and licked his lips, looking down, shyer still. “Where would - where would she touch me?”
“It depends,” said Ragnar, still half in his dream, trailing dream-hands down Athelstan’s chest, over his stomach. He had never seen Athelstan naked, but doubtless he looked much like any other man. “Where would you like?”
Athelstan raised his head sharply. “So it would matter what I would like?”
“Of course. We would - ”
“But it is not ‘of course,’” Athelstan interrupted, with the stubbornness that was so much a part of him. “It’s never of much account what slaves want.”
“But you are not a slave,” said Ragnar, a little irritated at the interruption, for his firelit dream picture was fading into the sunlight. “We had decided that - do you not remember?” Athelstan blew out a breath, lifting his face to the sky, and Ragnar gave his shoulder a light shove to bring him back to the present. “It would matter, what you wanted; we would not touch you anywhere you did not like. But it is surprising, the things that give pleasure: Lagertha likes to bite, and it feels sweet from her lips.”
And Ragnar could see Lagertha and Athelstan together in his mind’s eye: her slim strong hands in his dark curls, her golden hair trailing on his skin as she kissed her way down his chest. He could hear, almost, the priest gasp as Lagertha’s breasts brushed against him. “And she would like you to touch her: she would lift your hands to her breasts. A woman’s skin is very smooth, did you know that, prie - Athelstan?” And Ragnar nudged Athelstan.
Athelstan sat very straight and stiff and almost trembling, like a plucked harp string. “Would you...” Athelstan’s voice was husky, quiet. “Would you kiss me, you two?”
“Would you want us to?” Ragnar asked, lowering his voice too and drawing closer to Athelstan.
Athelstan nodded. He bit his lips, his cheeks flushing. His hands clenched in his lap.
Rangar scooted over till he sat hard by Athelstan, close enough to feel the heat of his body but not quite touching. He lifted a hand to Athelstan’s chin, turning Athelstan’s face toward him, and ran his thumb over Athelstan’s lower lip. Athelstan swallowed, mouth opening slightly, and Ragnar cupped Athelstan’s jaw and put his face close. Athelstan’s swift ragged breath brushed his cheeks. “Do you want me to kiss you now?” Ragnar asked.
Athelstan’s eyes closed. He nodded, slightly at first, and then more firmly, fervently almost. “Yes?” Ragnar prompted, because he wanted to hear Athelstan say it - for Athelstan to hear himself say it.
“Yes,” said Athelstan, his voice mostly breath, and he ducked his head and pressed a kiss to Ragnar’s palm.
His eyelashes looked long against his cheeks. Ragnar kissed his eyelids first, and then his cheeks as they flushed deeper. “You’re pretty like that,” Ragnar teased, kissing Athelstan’s ear, and Athelstan bit Ragnar’s palm.
Ragnar laughed, delighted. So Athelstan had remembered Ragnar liked to be bitten, then: a swift study he would be. “All right,” Ragnar said, and slid his hand along Athelstan’s jawbone to curl around his neck, and kissed Athelstan on the mouth. Athelstan made a little sound, almost distressed, and Ragnar stroked his free hand over Athelstan’s shoulder, soothing. Athelstan’s hands were still clenched into fists.
Ragnar drew back, putting just a hair’s breadth between their lips so he could speak. “Use your hands,” he murmured, lips brushing Athelstan’s; “You can touch me.” Athelstan’s hands rose to Ragnar’s forearms, lightly at first, and tightening as Ragnar kissed him again. Athelstan’s lips parted without prompting. Ragnar gave an approving hum, and moved closer to Athelstan - and in so doing, jarred his own injured leg.
He drew back with a hiss, hand dropping from Athelstan’s hair to his leg - and saw that Lagertha was in the clearing, watching.
She leaned against a fir tree, arms crossed, half-smirking. Ragnar widened his eyes at her, like a naughty boy, and for a second she pressed her lips together against a laugh. But by the time Athelstan had followed Ragnar’s eyes and turned to see her, she had arranged her face almost to sternness. “Go back to the house, priest,” said Lagertha. “There’s dinner to get ready.”
Athelstan snatched up his half-whittled spoon and plunged into the trees. Lagertha watched him go, half-smiling, and turned that half-smile on Ragnar as she ambled over to him, hips swaying.
She did not settle on the log beside him, but settled herself on his good leg, and gave his bad leg the lightest of kicks. “So?” she said. “Have you been keeping our priest to yourself?”
“No,” said Ragnar, and kissed her swiftly. “He asked me what it would be like if he came to our bed, and I meant to show him what a fine thing that would be...but he is still is half-afraid his god will punish him if he touches a woman, I think.”
“And so? I would be happy to watch the two of you together, if it will bring him to our bed,” said Lagertha. “It has been cold.”
“Yes,” said Ragnar, smiling too; but then he sighed, regretful. “But I also want to watch you two.”
“Well,” said Lagertha. A smile lifted her lips, and she wrapped an arm around Ragnar’s neck and gave him another kiss, tongue darting out to trace his lips. “Then maybe I will have to show our priest some things of my own.”
