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Ever since that uncomfortable moment when Athelstan was tormented again by a hallucination (though that one was of a more carnal nature), he has been unable to look Princess Kwenthrith in the eye. In fact, he has been doing his best to avoid her altogether. This is made more difficult when King Ecbert requires him to attend supper near to his table. Nearly every evening, Athelstan is forced to endure her stares. Her gaze is always hungry as if she wants to devour him instead of the meat she refuses to eat for supper. It gives him a strange, unwanted feeling in his belly, and Athelstan is left feeling weak in the knees; thankful that he was already sitting. Otherwise, he’s sure his legs would not support him. He keeps a firm grip on his crucifix until his fingers no longer want to uncurl and there are deep grooves on his palm that don’t fade for nearly an hour after he has excused himself and hidden away in his chambers.
This night was no easier than the last, made worse by the news that Ragnar has finally returned to Wessex. Athelstan had spent the meal hiding from Princess Kwenthrith’s invasive stare and trying not to recall the many times Ragnar had looked at him in a similar way. After having excused himself earlier than he usually did, Athelstan strode to his room and locked himself in for the night. He lay in his bed feeling the marks from his crucifix on his hand and imagining what it would be like when Ragnar comes, as Athelstan was almost positive he would.
Would Ragnar be happy to see him? Or would he think Athelstan a traitor for moving so quickly back into his old life? Would he embrace him? Athelstan wishes he would. Ragnar was always tactile, quick to touch a shoulder, a thigh, or even his face. Athelstan was sure that if Ragnar wasn’t too angry, he would clasp Athelstan to him and hold him tightly. The feeling of safety and rightness Athelstan felt when exposed to Ragnar’s regard in such a physical way is something Athelstan has missed like an ache.
If he closes his eyes, Athelstan can almost feel the way it would be with his arms around Ragnar, so close that they would be touching all down their fronts. Ragnar would have one hand on the back of Athelstan’s neck and the other on his back moving soothingly up and down, travelling lower until it reached –
Athelstan’s eyes snapped open. Ragnar was in front of him with that little smirk like he was proud to have come when Athelstan was wishing for him so strongly. His face hovered over him just a few inches away, and Athelstan could feel Ragnar’s breath on his face. His strong body pressed heavily down on Athelstan separated only by the bed sheet. His arms caged him in on either side of his head. Athelstan opened his mouth to say something (though what he could have said, he had no idea), but Ragnar set his finger to Athelstan’s lips and he fell silent. The look in Ragnar’s eyes echoed the hunger in Princess Kwenthrith’s, but rather than want to look away, Athelstan found himself caught by the gaze.
His chest seized with a painful longing he knew Ragnar could see on his face, and indeed Ragnar’s smirk grew ever wider. The once stationary finger silencing him began to trace his bottom lip leaving it tingling. In that moment, he couldn’t care how Ragnar came to be here or why, only that Athelstan wanting him so much closer. Ragnar, continuing to display an uncanny ability to read Athelstan’s mind, closed the short distance between their lips. The touch was almost disappointingly gentle until Athelstan made a helpless little whine in his throat. Ragnar took it as the encouragement it unintentionally was and swept his tongue out to dominate the uncharted territory of Athelstan’s mouth.
The feeling of being so effortlessly claimed overwhelmed him, and Athelstan groaned deep in his throat. Though the undulation of a tongue, Ragnar’s tongue, against his own was overpowering, Athelstan refused to close his eyes and let himself be swept away. He was unwilling to break the mesmerizing gaze between them. He had the strange feeling that Ragnar was pouring himself into his mouth and yet pulling Athelstan in through his eyes.
Through this strange vertigo, Athestan somehow remembered he had hands and these hands could be useful. Athelstan moved them from where they were laying inert on his chest and instead slipped them beneath Ragnar’s shirt to uncertainly trace the firm muscles on his back. The smug, excited mischief that sparked in Ragnar’s eyes let him know he was doing the right thing. He pulled down more assuredly until Ragnar’s strong body was flush with his own and he could feel a hardness grinding against his groin. Athelstan’s breath stuttered in his chest when Ragnar’s hard length urged against his own shameful arousal. Athelstan might have pulled away then had Ragnar eyes, still locked with Athelstan’s, not gone half-lidded with pleasure and had he not bit down hard on Athlestan’s bottom lip sending sparks all throughout his body. Athelstan tentatively slid his tongue into Ragnar’s mouth trying to copy the expert way Ragnar had left him gasping and wanton. Ragnar let loose a growl of encouragement and started sucking savagely on Athelstan’s tongue.
Athelstan forgot that he was supposed to be chaste, that lying with a man was a heinous sin, that God was not already punishing him. He could only feel the waves of pleasure washing through him, stealing away all sense. He surged upward desperately against Ragnar and pressed on Ragnar’s back until Ragnar was grinding down just as fiercely. Athelstan was going mad with the pleasure. His breath was coming shorter, his heartbeat was pounding in his ears, Ragnar’s eyes had completely subsumed his vision until he was all Athelstan could see. The roll of pleasure kept building and rising until Athelstan couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.
He blinked, and Ragnar was gone.