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levithestripper · 1 year ago

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Patience Is a Virtue

summary:

stuck in winchester due to a quicker-than-usual winter and confined inside king ecbert’s castle with nothing to do, ragnar finds himself trailing behind athelstan, being strung along to god knows where. but his little priest promises it's worth it, and ragnar makes good on athelstan’s promise.

warnings: fluff, smut, porn with a sprinkling of plot, corruption kink, god complex, church sex, oral sex, semi-public sex (?), religious imagery and guilt, degradation kink, praise kink, aftercare.

length: 7.6k || read on ao3 || join my taglist

a/n: born of a thought i had with @grantairescurls :) the brainworms consumed me while writing this and i somehow managed to finish it before the new year. ending the past two years with an athelnar fic may become a tradition around here who knows. ANYWAYS i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did while writing it. doubles as day 16 of my three year old kinktober series i'm struggling to finish lmfao.

Winchester is a fascinating place. The landscape is similar enough to Norway’s, albeit missing the country’s magnificent mountains and rolling hills that Ragnar has somehow grown bored of. It has grown even closer in similarity these last few months, with winter bringing heavy snowstorms, covering the courtyard in fluffy white snow that glitters in the cold sunlight.

Free of King Ecbert’s all-knowing gaze, he walks beside Athelstan, eagerly waiting to see where his priest is leading him. But he’s known for being impatient, voicing his restlessness to Athelstan, a man who has enough patience for the both of them. “Where are you taking me, little priest?” Ragnar asks, trying to push the right buttons to irritate him, but it fails.

“Patience is a virtue, Ragnar,” he replies, a knowing look on his face.

Ragnar rolls his eyes with a dramatic groan, earning himself a quiet chuckle from his friend. “Well, are we close, at least?”

Athelstan doesn’t answer him on purpose, knowing it’ll annoy him further. Before Ragnar can continue to complain, Athelstan announces they’ve arrived at their destination. “We’re here.”

They stand in front of two giant wooden doors at the end of the long cobblestone hallway they found themselves in. The black metal handles make it look like the entrance to a dungeon.

Ragnar looks at Athelstan with confusion. Ath must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere! Ath surely can’t be serious when he says this is what he is so eager to show him! “Didn’t realize you’re a comedian, Athelstan,” he smirks. “Come on, where are we going, truthfully?”

Athelstan turns to meet his gaze, unaffected by Ragnar’s cockiness, far too used to him and his shenanigans. “I told you, patience is a virtue.” He leaves Ragnar’s side, walking up two pointless steps, and takes hold of the cold metal handles, pulling both doors open in a grand reveal of what lay behind. Light flooded the dark hallway, causing Ragnar to raise a shielding hand to his brow.

Through squinted eyes, what he sees takes his breath away. Larger-than-life stained glass windows filter the massive amount of winter sunlight into a rainbow of colors across the beautiful stone floors. Despite the colorful sunlight, the room is still relatively dark. The ceiling is taller than the hallways’, at least three stories worth of height between the two, the top coming together at a point. Hanging from the pointed ceiling is a fancy—and expensive-looking—candlelit chandelier, adding to the specific atmosphere in the room that Ragnar can’t find a descriptor name for. In the center of the room is a marble statue depicting what appears to be a stable of some kind. The wall behind the statue hangs a large wooden cross with a bronze man nailed to it.

“This is what I wanted to show you.” Athelstan looks as if he is in his God’s heaven. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Ragnar slowly trails behind him, head craning back to absorb everything before him. “Is this what you talk so much of back home? What is it called…” he mumbles under his breath, searching for the word in English. “A… church?”

Athelstan smiles at the effort Ragnar is putting towards getting the correct answer all on his own. “Close. A chapel,” he says in Norse, then repeats the new word in English.

He nods, trying to commit the phrase to memory. “What is the difference?” he asks, returning to Norse.

“A chapel is a place for private prayers, while a church is for congregations led by a priest.” Ath lets Ragnar take his hand within his callused one, keeping him close.

The Vikingr’s eyes light up at the mention of a priest. Finally, something he knew something about! “A priest? A priest like mine?”

Ragnar’s words cause a red dust to bloom across Athelstan’s cheeks. “I’m not a priest, Ragnar.”

He shrugs. “They’re basically the same thing.” Ragnar turns and points at the marbled statue in the center of the room. “What is that? It’s not like anything you’ve told me about.”

Athelstan looks to where he is pointing and pulls Ragnar towards it with the hand the Vikingr still held onto. “This is a nativity scene!”

He looks at him with a confused expression, suddenly lost again. “A nativity scene? What is a nativity?” Ragnar asks, the English word feeling foreign and unnatural on his tongue.

He gnaws on his thick bottom lip as he mulls over the easiest way to explain it in Norse. He sighs. “A nativity is the place of someone’s birth. And a nativity scene is a depiction of that.” Ragnar circles the statue, looking at it from every angle imaginable as if he were sizing an opponent up for a fight. He crosses his arms over his chest, pressing his elbow into the meat of his forearm, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

“Why?”

It’s Athelstan’s turn to feel puzzled now. “What?”

“You heard me, Ath. Why? What is the point?”

Ath moves to stand beside him. “It’s a recreation of the birth of our Savior.”

Ragnar interrupts him. “Our savior?” he questions, voice full of snark.

“Shut it and listen,” he smacks his bicep. “It’s how the faith celebrates the birth of the son of God all year round. Every year around this time, churches will put together beautiful masses to commemorate the birth of Jesus. It’s an important symbol in the religion, making the Lord tangible for all the world. Etching it into stone makes it permanent, ensuring parishioners never forget that He was once a helpless babe like they were.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, absorbing Athelstan’s words and attempting to understand them to the best of his abilities. “God’s son?” Ragnar squats in front of the marble baby. The stone infant slept in a pile of straw compiled within a trough, surrounded by who Ragnar assumed were his parents and extended family. Ragnar trails his finger across the babe’s cold forehead, feeling the finely chiseled details against his skin. “Is this the eldest son?”

Athelstan sits cross-cross next to him, nodding.

“Like Thor?”

Ath makes a face. “I suppose so.”

“Who are your god’s other children? Why are they not here?” Ragnar shifts to sit as well. “Why dishonor his other children this way?”

“Jesus is God’s only son.”

Ragnar chuckles. “Your god must be stupid, then. Betting everything on one son, only for him to die before having sons of his own.”

“Everything was a part of His plan, making Jesus’ death far from stupid,” Ath counters, leaning against Ragnar’s shoulder.

The Vikingr sighs deeply. “Do you worship him still? This Jesus.”

Athelstan shrugs. “I see the Lord in the blooming of spring flowers, but I hear Thor in my ears when I run into battle beside you. I feel the Lord in the summertime breeze, but I pray to Freyja to protect my norse sisters when they enter motherhood.”

“You’re a confusing man, Athelstan. No matter how much I learn about you, you never fail to reveal something I’m incapable of understanding.” Ragnar’s words earn him a giggle from the man beside him.

Ath turns his head, his chin digging into the soft tissue in Ragnar’s shoulder. “You’d be bored if I were any different.” Ragnar’s silence is telling, confirming Athelstan’s statement as correct.

Ragnar doesn’t stay silent for long. He never is quiet for long, always spouting the first thing that comes to mind. “Why is there no table?”

“Table?” Ath questions.

“The table!” he repeats as if that would clarify it. He gestures with his hands, trying to visualize the image in his head by drawing it in the air. “The table the priest hides behind!”

Ragnar’s words finally clicked inside Ath’s head. “Oh! You mean the altar?” He nods. “Chapels don’t have altars since they’re designed for individual prayer.”

“That’s a shame,” he says with a coy smirk, a devious glint in his icy-blue eyes.

Athelstan raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yeah? Now, why is that?” Ragnar invades Ath’s personal space, noses just barely touching. It doesn’t startle him in the slightest, having grown quite used to it in the past handful of years being Ragnar’s partner.

Teasingly, he licks the tip of Ath’s nose. He leans in, whispering hotly in his ear. “If there were a table,” Ragnar refuses to call it by its proper name, purposely to irk him, “I could bend you over and fuck you on it.” He finishes with a sultry drag of his tongue up the shell of Athelstan’s ear, biting the lobe when the younger man shudders underneath him.

Athelstan’s expression looks as if he can’t decide between being aroused or being appalled. “Ragnar!”

“What, little priest? Does the idea of fucking on your god’s table make you uncomfortable?” Ragnar slides a rough hand over one of Athelstan’s thighs. “Or does the thought of defiling your Lord’s precious altar fill you with an embarrassing feeling of desire?” Ragnar’s words are hot against his ear, drawing another shudder from him.

“Ragnar!” Athelstan exclaims, his face a bright shade of red.

His smirk broadens as he drinks in Ath’s reaction. “Hm? Did I strike a nerve in you, my love?” Ragnar goads, teasing his hand further up Athelstan’s inner thigh, fingertips sending tingles straight to Ath’s slowly hardening cock. “Maybe I should take you right here instead, take you apart piece by piece in front of your beloved stone nativity.”

Athelstan grasps his wrist, halting his hand from edging along any further. “We can’t—I can’t. Not here.”

“Then explain why your cock is telling me a different story, my love,” he hums, breaking free of Athelstan’s hold to cup the man’s groin in his palm. Ragnar feels his own cock twitch against his thigh. “Let me show your god exactly how I worship you.” Ragnar closes the barely-there gap between them, lips pressing against his messily, hungrily. Athelstan practically melts under his ministrations, just like always. He grips Ragnar’s wrist again, trying to keep himself grounded, or else he feels as if he might float away.

“Ragnar, we can’t, it’s wrong!” Athelstan isn’t sure if he’s saying it to convince himself or Ragnar. Maybe both. When he’s kissing him, he can’t be sure of much. “Seriously,” Ragnar kisses him again. “We shouldn’t—” Another kiss. “We can’t!” Another kiss, this one sloppier than the rest.

Ragnar mocks him teasingly. “We can’t! We shouldn’t! It’s wrong! You should give me a real reason, little priest.” He moves to kiss down Ath’s neck, sucking on the spot he knows will make the man whimper and shiver. “Don’t try and hide how badly you want this. You know I can see right through your little disguise, sweetheart.” Ragnar squeezes Ath’s quickly thickening cock, pulling sweet, embarrassing noises from him. Athelstan’s resolve is quickly deteriorating, much to Ragnar’s pleasure.

“This is no fair; you’re no fair, Ragnar,” Ath complains, forgetting to add malice to his insult. His blush has spread down the column of his neck, making Ragnar want to suck pretty purple bruises into the soft skin there. Ragnar’s quick to act on his impulses, leaving an impossible-to-hide bruise in his wake. “What—What if someone walks in?” Ath manages to stutter out.

He chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating in his chest. “So what?” he snickers, kissing a line down Ath’s neck, roughly tugging on the neckline of his tunic so he can continue along his shoulder. “Who cares if someone finds us. It wouldn’t stop me.” Quickly finding the blue fabric irritating, Ragnar pulls it over Ath’s head and tosses it behind them without a care. Taking off his own shit as well, Ragnar pushes him to lie on his back, shoving his tunic underneath Ath’s head as a makeshift pillow. “So what if your beloved god watches me fuck you? He should be honored to watch one of his creations be so thoroughly taken care of,” he hums, his words sending another wave of sparks through Athelstan’s body.

Athelstan doesn’t have a response for him. And even if he did, he doesn’t think he’d be capable of speaking without stumbling over every word. So he stays silent to keep from embarrassing himself further. The lack of any comeback made Ragnar grin maliciously.

“Not talking, my little priest?” he asks coyly. “Now, now, why could that be? I know you’re good with your words.” As Ragnar speaks, his deft fingers quickly begin unlacing Athelstan’s trousers. “Perhaps,” he licks his lips enticingly, his grin morphing into a familiar cocky smirk, ��perhaps you want me to turn you into a dirty little sinner. Maybe you just don’t wanna admit how hard the thought of defiling your beloved god’s house makes you. ‘Cause then,” Ragnar leans down to whisper in his ear, his breath hot against his lover’s skin, “you’d be a filthy heathen like me.”

All of the willpower Athelstan had mustered up ‘till down crumbles around him at Ragnar’s words, the thought alone making his pretty pale blue eyes roll backward in his skull. “Fuck, Ragnar,” he groans, his voice shaking as if he might start crying any minute. “Fuck it, fuck everything, fuck God—I need you right now!” Ath exclaims, wiggling out of his trousers and kicking them away. He fumbles with the ties on Ragnar’s pants, desperately trying to push them down his thick, muscled thighs.

Ragnar cheekily nips at the shell of his ear before helping Athelstan relieve him of his pants, leaving the pair in just their undergarments. “Didn’t hold out for as long as I thought you would, sweetheart. Are you that desperate for me to defile you? To ruin you in front of your god?” Ragnar kisses down his sternum, laving his tongue over the sparse freckles he found dotted across his lover’s chest. He teases his fingertips along the waistband of Athelstan’s underwear. “Is that right, Athelstan?”

Instead of words, Ath whines pathetically, embarrassment flooding his senses. He felt his cock throb and leak beads of pre at the sound of Ragnar saying his name in such a lustful, inappropriate manner. “How long do you truly expect me to hold out for when you seduce me like this?” He unties Ragnar’s ponytail but leaves the braided sections alone, running his fingers through his now mostly loose locks. “You should leave your hair down more often.”

“Only if you promise to pull on it,” he says with a smirk, earning himself a deserved smack on the shoulder. With a giggle, Ragnar unceremoniously tugs down Ath’s underwear, watching intently as his cock slaps against his lover’s toned abdomen. Laying between Ath’s now spread legs, he mouths over his jutting hipbones, kissing everywhere but where Athelstan so desperately wishes he would. Ragnar lifts Athelstan’s legs to rest on his broad shoulders as his rough, weathered hands wrap around his thick, supple thighs, keeping him from squirming away. Nipping at his inner thigh with his teeth, Ragnar slowly makes his way down to Ath’s groin, littering small kisses as he goes.

Slowly regaining his confidence, Athelstan teases him right back, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Starting to think your bark is worse than your bite, Ragnar.”

He cocks an eyebrow at him. “Oh? How so?”

“You’re going so slow it’s almost like you’ve got cold feet or something,” Athelstan smirks, egging him on.

Ragnar returns his gaze with sharp eyes, telling Ath everything he needs to know with just one look. If he wasn’t before, he’s sure in for it now. Ungentle hands spread the globes of Athelstan’s ass apart. The rush of cool air to the newly exposed skin makes his whole body shiver with anticipation. Ragnar licks a hot, thick stripe from Ath’s hole to just below his balls, drawing an unexpected yelp from him. The yelp soon turns to moans as Ragnar continues, each lap of his tongue sending his nerve endings into overdrive. Slowly working his hole loose, Ragnar slides a free hand up Athelstan’s chest, stopping when they reach his red, bite-swollen lips. “Go on, pretty boy, make them nice’n wet for me.”

He wastes no time, opening his mouth for two of Ragnar’s fingers, sucking on them fervently. Ath licks them from base to tip, acting as if they were his cock and not mere fingers. Once Ragnar deems them wet enough, he pulls them from Athelstan’s lips, a string of spit connecting them briefly before it breaks, now sticking to Ath’s chin instead. “Good job,” Ragnar hums, sliding his spit-slick fingers down Athelstan’s taint and over his entrance. “Do you feel your god? Can you feel him watching us? Watching you?” he taunts with a click of his tongue. Ragnar presses the pads of his fingers against his entrance, threatening to sink inside but never following through with it.

Athelstan nods, embarrassment bubbling to the surface once more.

“I don’t think he’ll still be your god after this, little priest,” he licks over his top teeth with a gross wet sound. “I think I’ll be your god instead.” With that, Ragnar presses two fingers inside him, and Athelstan’s jaw drops in a silent scream. The sudden stretch burns slightly, but he likes a little side dish of pain with his pleasure.

Ragnar sits up, folding his legs underneath him. Athelstan’s legs are still propped up on Ragnar’s shoulders, stretching to stay up there as he moves. He unhurriedly thrusts his digits in and out of Ath’s tight hole, watching smugly as a lewd expression spreads across his lover’s face. Using his free hand, Ragnar holds Athelstan’s left leg steady, peppering light kisses along his meaty calf.

“You can—fuck—you can add another finger; please add another finger,” he begs, fighting to keep his eyes open and focused on Ragnar.

He chuckles, but it sounds like it came from the Vikingr’s chest instead of his throat. “What if I don’t?” The pads of his fingers just barely brush against Ath’s sweet spot, enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Weren’t you the one just lecturing me about how patience is a virtue?”

Athelstan huffs in frustration, mildly upset that his words were successfully being used against him. He chooses to ignore it for now, focusing on the first question posed to him instead. “I’d be upset.” He looks up at him with a devilish gaze as if he were daring Ragnar to go through with his threat. They both knew he wouldn’t. Ragnar enjoys taking him apart far too much to deprive him of it just to fulfill an empty threat.

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we? A God has to keep his subjects happy, after all.” Ragnar slips out of him, wetting his ring finger with his own spit before pressing all three inside. Athelstan blesses his ears with a moan that sounds almost as pretty as he looks. “There we go,” Ragnar mumbles, spreading his fingers apart methodically, occasionally curling them against Ath’s sweet spot. After a few minutes, he deems Athelstan’s hole to be loose enough and pulls out, his knuckles glistening with a combination of their spit. Ragnar removes Athelstan’s legs from their home on his shoulders, motioning for him to sit up.

Quick to obey, he braces himself on the heels of his hands. Ragnar meets him the rest of the way, bending over slightly to kiss him. It’s sweeter than their previous kisses, but it’s not that way for long, Athelstan taking the lead and licking into Ragnar’s eager mouth, turning the sweet kiss into a sloppy makeout. Athelstan anchors his hands in Ragnar’s hair, tugging on it harshly, earning himself a low grumble from the older man. “Let me suck you off, love?” Ath whispers, lightly dragging his teeth down Ragnar’s neck.

He growls, the sound rumbling in his chest handsomely. “Like you need to ask.”

Athelstan wastes no time swapping positions, pulling Ragnar’s underwear down before settling between the man’s spread thighs. He doesn’t beat around the bush, far too eager to get his mouth around Ragnar’s thick cock. Laying down on the cold stone floor, Athelstan presses his face against the crease where Ragnar’s inner thigh meets his pelvis. Breathing in his scent, he lifts his head up and kisses the tip, licking a bead of pre-come off and swallowing. Holding Ragnar’s gaze, Athelstan slowly took him into his hot, wet mouth. Unable to keep his head up, Ragnar closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of Ath’s lips around him.

“Didn’t know you had such a sinful little mouth, Ath,” Ragnar groans out, putting all his effort towards not fucking his lover’s throat ‘till he can’t speak correctly.

He simply hums around him, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to his core. Sinking down to the base, Athelstan chokes slightly when the tip hits the back of his throat. He gradually quickens the pace as he loosens his jaw, allowing for more of Ragnar’s cock to fit down his throat. Returning the favor, Ragnar yanks on Ath’s dark brown curls, keeping him from pulling off for a few seconds. Spit and drool drip from the base of his cock and down his heavy ballsack, eventually pooling on the gray stone beneath them. Ath’s chin is also slick with spit, his beard damp and curling even more due to the moisture.

With each bob of his head, the room echoes with sounds of him slurping and the occasional gag. One would think Athelstan had no idea he was in a church based on how he was acting, slobbering around a heathen’s cock as if it were what he was put on this Earth to do. He tongues the thick vein running along the underside of Ragnar’s cock, drawing a strangled moan from the man. Ath does it again before moving upwards, focusing all his attention on the overly sensitive head. He teases the slit he finds there, eagerly lapping up all the pre-come that had begun to dribble out. The action causes Ragnar’s cock to throb and his leg to twitch, and he’s quick to tug on Athelstan’s hair again, a silent warning that he’s close. Noticing this, he promptly pulls off with a wet pop sound. His chest heaves as he quickly tries to catch his breath.

Somehow, Ragnar looks in worse shape than Athelstan does, long hair matted against his sweaty forehead, his cock a deep shade of red and oozing pre-come. The perfect depiction of Satan’s temptations laid out in front of him, just begging for Athelstan to come and take a bite. He doesn’t think twice about going against his Lord’s wishes or what it would mean for his soul, far too enraptured in the delicious spread before him to care about some pretty garden his Lord had to offer when he could have Ragnar Lothbrok instead. Not even the King of Kings can win a fight against the King of the Northman. Ragnar beats everything his Holy Father offers him with little effort. Athelstan looks him up and down, drinking in the sight of him as if he were about to devour him whole.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Athelstan shuffles on his knees to straddle Ragnar’s hips, his cock bobbing enticingly in front of Ragnar’s face. The Vikingr gazes up at Athestan, taking in the beauty before him. His rough hands grab greedily at supple hips, thumbs meeting at a belly button surrounded by a thick trail of coarse hair. Ragnar feels Ath’s hungry eyes on him, an unneeded boost to his severely overblown ego. “You look good enough to eat, my love,” he digs his teeth into his bottom lip, returning Ath’s hungry gaze with one of his own.

“Good enough for a God?” Athelstan asks, voice dripping with lust.

Ragnar pretends to contemplate the question as he rolls his hips upwards to grind against Athelstan’s. “Depends on what His sinful little disciple can offer Him.”

Licking his lips, Ath splays his hands over Ragnar’s chest, tracing over long healed scars with his fingertips. “He can devote his life in service to Him.” Athelstan can’t articulate why, but speaking of himself in the third person like this stirs something within him that makes a pleasurable heat pool in his abdomen. “Devote himself to loving Him, serving Him, obeying Him.” He leans down as he speaks, slowly coming nose-to-nose with Ragnar. Athelstan shifts further down Ragnar’s abdomen, ass now nestled just above Ragnar’s cock. “Would He like that?”

Ragnar’s mouth curls in a devilish grin, grinding against his plush ass. “He’d have to renounce his previous Lord. This God doesn’t like to share with others.”

He kisses the edge of Ragnar’s mouth, knowing how it drives him mad. “Will his new Lord take care of him for eternity?” Ragnar turns Ath’s head to face him properly, his pointer and middle fingers holding his chin as he captures Ath’s lips in a heated kiss. The passion within his embrace serves as Ragnar’s answer, something Athelstan effortlessly picks up on.

Ragnar pulls away enough to whisper against his lips, switching back to first-person language, his brain too addled with lust to adequately phrase sentences that way for any longer. “How about you make yourself nice’n pretty for your new God?”

“How does He want me?” Athelstan nips at Ragnar’s ear before kissing it, almost like an apology for biting him.

“On all fours, face down,” he slaps Ath’s ass, and Athelstan yelps in surprise, “ass up like you’re praying.” Athelstan gets off of him, but not without a furious red blush flooding from his cheeks to color his pale chest beautifully. Sitting up, he watches how quick Ath is to obey his request. It merely fuels the flames of Ragnar’s ego, making him even more eager to take Athelstan apart piece by piece and put him back together in his own image.

Ath makes a show of bending over, swaying his hips as he goes, and arching his back, making him the picture of temptation. “Like this?” he asks innocently, spreading his legs and looking over his shoulder at him, resting his weight on his forearms.

Ragnar settles behind him, shamelessly running his hands over the globes of Athelstan’s ass. “Mmhm, just like this. Such a sinful little worshiper you are. Defiling your previous Lord’s house, throwing away your chance for holiness without a second thought.” Ragnar fists his cock, spitting on it to get it wet again. He taps it against Athelstan’s still loose hole, watching it clench desperately around nothing.

Athelstan’s cock throbs pathetically at Ragnar’s words, sending a whole body shiver through him. He presses his ass into Ragnar’s hands, silently pleading for Ragnar to bury himself deep inside. All it accomplishes, however, is getting the Vikingr to smack his thick cock against him again.

“I think,” he hums, pausing solely to draw out Ath’s torment, “you should beg your abandoned Lord for forgiveness.” Ragnar presses his cockhead against Athelstan’s entrance, barely dipping inside before retreating. “You are sinning in his house, after all.” Athelstan gasps at his proposition, and Ragnar takes advantage of his lover’s shock, deciding it to be the perfect opportunity to push inside him. He bullies his way inside, not stopping to give Ath time to adjust until his balls are pressed against Ath’s thighs.

“Ragnar!” he yelps, the sudden intrusion knocking the breath from his lungs. On top of having been a while since they last laid together, Ragnar’s cock is far thicker than the three fingers he prepared him with, so there’s a slight burn in the stretch as he bottoms out. “Fuck, you’re so stupidly big!” Ath whines, gripping the makeshift pillow in an attempt to stay grounded.

He tsks at him. “That’s no way to talk to your Lord, Athelstan. Don’t you think?” Without waiting for a response, Ragnar pulls out nearly all the way, leaving just the tip. He grips Athelstan’s hips roughly, the pads of his fingers squeezing the soft, unmarred skin there.

He panics at the sudden empty feeling, immediately backtracking, determined to be a good boy for Ragnar. “No,” he choked on his words, his brain moving faster than his mouth could keep up with. “No, it’s not; please forgive me!”

“I’m not who you should be apologizing to, remember?” Ragnar goads as he sinks back inside at a gruelingly slow pace. “Or should I pull out to help jog your memory?” Keeping one hand on Ath’s hip, Ragnar sinks his right hand in Ath’s dark brown curls, tugging his head up to force him to look at the cross directly behind the nativity scene before them. “You tell me stories of how Jesus died for your sins, only for you to shame him by sinning in his chapel.”

Athelstan whimpers and whines, shamelessly canting his hips back on Ragnar’s cock. “Please don’t pull out,” he begs, sniffling. Despite how he sounds, Athelstan doesn’t think he’s ever been this aroused in all his thirty-five years of life. Made to gaze upon the man he had once dedicated his life to serving, on his knees in mock prayer, but it wasn’t Jesus he was praying to this time. It looks unlikely he’ll ever pray to the Heavenly Father or His son again after this, having found something much sweeter and far more rewarding. Something more real to Athelstan than the figure on the wall or the marble Blessed Virgin Mother in front of him ever will be.

The unmistakable sound of Ragnar snarking breaks him out of his thoughts. He’s remained unmoving since bottoming out a second time, providing a deep-seated, pleasurable pressure within Ath’s abdomen. “I’m not above using you as my own personal cockwarmer until you start begging, darling,” he threatens, only this time Athelstan knows it’s not an empty one.

Unfortunately, Athelstan’s bratted too close to the sun more often than he cares to admit. This might end up one of those times if he doesn’t play his cards correctly. “What do you want me to beg for, Ragnar?” he questions cheekily, playing dumb, knowing exactly how to get the reaction he wants from Ragnar.

Ragnar yanks on his hair as a warning. “You’ve been good up ‘till now, little priest,” his deep voice rumbles low in his throat, words sticky with pent-up desire, the little self-control he has left quickly deteriorating with every passing minute. “I wouldn’t go fucking it up now if I were you.” He emphasizes it with a slow, punishing roll of his hips, cockhead brushing against Athelstan’s sweet spot. “But if you don’t want me to fuck you after all, keep doing what you’re doing, sweetheart.”

The moan Ath lets out is utterly sinful, and Ragnar hasn’t begun to fuck him in earnest yet. He briefly debates his options, but it wasn’t a hard decision. Solidifying his gaze on the nailed God before him, Athelstan began to pray for the Lord’s forgiveness. “Lord, I seek Your forgiveness and healing. Help me to release the weight of the guilt and shame that I carry.”

“Aww, there we go, little priest. Beg to your nailed god,” Ragnar taunts. He pulls out again and truly starts to fuck him now, thrusting into him quickly. The hand on Ath’s hip squeezes tightly, sure to leave bruises later. Ragnar tugs Athelstan’s hips back on each thrust he gives. The chapel echoes with sounds of skin slapping against skin and Athelstan’s choked, moaned prayers. Sweat slides down the ridges of Ath’s spine and pools in the divots at the end of his tailbone. “Imagine how disappointed he must be in you, Athelstan,” he says with a yank of his hair. He drapes himself across Ath’s back so he can whisper into his ear. “Once a pious little monk,” Ragnar delivers a particularly harsh thrust, hitting a pleasurable bundle of nerves inside Athelstan. “Now reduced to a devilish sinner by a blasphemous pagan.”

Athelstan wonders briefly about where in the world Ragnar could’ve learned that word, but the arousal thrumming through his body made any coherent train of thought impossible. He was barely managing to get out his prayers, let alone anything in addition to that. “Grant me strength, ‘O—oh fuuck—‘O Lord, to learn from my previous mistakes and help me grow,” Athelstan stops mid-sentence, interrupting himself with a slutty moan. “Ragnar, Ragnar, fucking hell, you’re so deep,” he whines, rolling his hips back on each thrust he gives.

His lips curl in a cocky smile. “How’s it feel, sweetheart?” The hand in Ath’s hair twists, making him groan loudly.

“It feels s’good, Ragnar!” He moans, white-knuckling Ragnar’s abandoned tunic. Ath fights his eyes from rolling back in his head, desperate not to appear as how slutty he feels. It doesn’t work. “Harder, Ragnar, please!” He almost forgets to continue his prayers, but a perfectly aimed thrust to his prostate reminds him of his orders. “‘O Lord, I thank You for even though I am a sinner, in the kindness of Your mercy!” Athelstan feels shame flood over him and the omnipotent eyes of Jesus Christ boring into him from across the room. Judging him, condemning him, and casting him down from the light of heaven, sentencing his soul to the fiery pit of hell for eternity. But that humiliating feeling is accompanied by a shameful pleasure that greedily spreads throughout his entire body, making his extremities tingle.

Ragnar is more than happy to oblige, fucking into him at a punishing speed, hips moving at a godlike speed. Each thrust hits Athelstan’s sweet spot dead on, ripping a loud moan from him every time. “You’re still so tight, Ath.” He bites the fleshy junction of his shoulder and neck, leaving a blotchy red mark in his wake. “It’s like your god made you to be wrapped around my cock like this.” He releases his hold on Ath’s hair, moving to fist Athelstan’s red, leaking cock instead. His hand nearly engulfed his cock entirely, just the tip peeking out from above his fingers. “What do you think, hm? You think he made you just for me?”

Ath manages to nod, biting his lip so hard it nearly bleeds. He’s given up praying for forgiveness now, his mind all-encompassed by Ragnar and the arousal coursing through his veins. “Just—Just for you, always been just for you!” He cants his hips into Ragnar’s hand, needy for any and all friction he could get against his poor, neglected cock. “Please, please, please, Ragnar!” he begs, unsure exactly what he’s begging for, just that he needs more of whatever it is.

“Please, please, please!” Ragnar mocks and Athelstan can practically see the conniving smirk he wears in his mind’s eye. “Please what, little priest? Can’t give it to you if I don’t know what it is.” Athelstan’s whole body shudders from his next thrust, eyes quickly rolling back from the intensity of it.

He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out are incoherent moans and slutty whimpers. “Please—oh, right there! Please, just, more, more of—fuuck—everything, please, Ragnar!” Ath’s arms give out from underneath him, his weight resting on his shoulders, cheek pressed against the cold stone floor.

“More, hm?” Ragnar slows his movements, earning himself a pathetic whine from his lover. “Even with all your pleas for forgiveness, you still want more?”

Ath nods with another high-pitched whine.

“Do you think your precious nailed god would approve of that desire?”

He shakes his head no.

“Perfect,” Ragnar growls, standing up straight once more, drinking in the sight before him as if it were the perfect cup of ale. He takes his hand off Athelstan’s cock and places it on his hip, spreading his cheeks apart with his thumb and forefinger. Reestablishing the pace he had previously, Ragnar watches his cock disappear inside him, a creamy white ring of pre-come circling his base. “I hope he’s watching when I paint your pretty insides and fully claim you as mine,” he pairs his words with a punishing thrust, far harder than anything else he’d delivered previously. “Watches me take you from him for good this time.”

Each thrust is like electricity, sending tingles from his toes to his fingertips. “Yours, Ragnar,” he hiccups, “Yours, make me yours!”

Ragnar lands a harsh smack to Ath’s asscheek, a slightly pink handprint blooming across his pale skin. “Always have been mine, little priest. Ever since I stole you from your comfy little monastery.” He angles his hips so he hits Ath’s sweet spot with every thrust. “I wanna hear you say it. Tell your beloved god who you truly belong to.”

“You! I belong to you!” he cries, voice bouncing off the walls, echoing his shame for all close enough to hear.

He yanks Ath’s head up, forcing him to speak directly to the cross instead of begging into the floor. Ragnar hoists him almost entirely off the floor, now barely able to graze the stone with his fingertips. “Look him in the eye when you speak, sweetheart. After all, you can’t disgrace him further by being rude, and I’m sure you don’t want that.” Ragnar’s words are soaked with liquid sin, the droplets burning a hole in the consecrated floors of this sacred building he’s corrupting with each passing minute.

Athelstan hums a yes and repeats himself, staring into the cold, metal eyes of Jesus, his former savior, who died to atone for humanity’s sinful souls. Even though it’s only a statue, Ath felt as if it were Jesus himself nailed there, flesh and blood dripping to the floor with cold splats. He can practically see him there, gold and brown colored metal morphing into pale skin marred with rivers of red. “I’m sorry, ‘O Lord! Please bless me with your kind mercy!” he cries out in his thoughts, but deep down, he knows it’s not a genuine apology. He knows God knows as well. Ath doubts his soul will be cleansed, but he can’t doesn’t care any longer. He has a new God.

“Tell him who you belong to.” Ragnar’s thrusts don’t let up, somehow gaining in force instead.

Ath swallows thickly before speaking, eyebrows pressing upward, his face screwed together in overwhelming pleasure. “You! I belong to you!”

Ragnar twists Ath’s curls in his fist. “Who? Say my name, Athelstan. He might believe you’re talking about him.”

“You, Ragnar!”

“Hm? I can’t hear you, Athelstan; you’ve got to speak up, or else he won’t hear you, either,” Ragnar goads, grinding his hips hard against his ass.

The curve of Athelstan’s spine is nearly pornographic. Ath scrambles to find something to hold onto but comes up empty-handed. “I belong to Ragnar! You, Ragnar!” he yells, stretching his arm backward to grip the back of Ragnar’s head, fingers anchoring in his hair. “Oh, my God—oh, my god fuck—I’m close, Ragnar, please!”

Ragnar releases his grip on Ath’s hair to wrap his arm around Ath’s stomach, holding him closer than believed possible. He presses his sweaty forehead against Athelstan’s shoulder, his thrusts growing uneven and sloppy as he approaches his limit as well. “Fuck, Ath-Athelstan,” he stutters, the mask he wore cracking at the edges, revealing just how desperate he really is. “Fuuck, yes, that’s it, you’re so fucking hot like this, baby. Fucked open and needy, just for me and no one else.” Ragnar splays his fingers over the tensed muscles of Athelstan’s stomach, pressing down gently.

“No one else, all yours, my love,” Ath babbles, leaning his head back to rest on top of Ragnar’s. His chest heaves with each gulp of air he takes, the lower half of his ribs showing slightly every time his stomach sucks in. “Gonna—oh, fuck, there—gonna cum!”

“Cum for me, Ath, make a pretty mess all over my hand, fuuck,” Ragnar moans out, words warbly and uneven as he does his best to speak without stumbling over everything. “You’re so pretty, so good for me.” His thrusts quickly lose whatever rhythm they had left as he reaches his climax, spilling his cum deep inside Ath’s spasming entrance.

Athelstan’s cock throbs and twitches when he feels Ragnar’s orgasm, his own cum spurting all over his stomach and Ragnar’s hand. His legs shake violently, toes curling and uncurling in tandem with each spurt of his cock. The short nails of his left hand rake across Ragnar’s back and side, making the man shiver. As they both come down from their highs, a mix of Ath’s cum and sweat drips wetly onto the floor. He can feel Ragnar breathing heavily against his back, finding his equally exhausted presence comforting.

As his cock softens, Ragnar carefully slips out of him, a rush of cum quickly following. Shivering, Athelstan shuffles to turn around before Ragnar does. Now face to face with his lover, Ragnar kisses him gently, as if Athelstan would break if treated too roughly, a stark difference from how Ragnar was manhandling him a few minutes prior. He tilts his head to one side and cups Athelstan’s unmarred cheek with his clean hand, thumb stroking his sweaty cheekbone. Ath licks into his mouth, nose pressing into Ragnar’s scarred one. The kiss lasts for both years and only a handful of seconds simultaneously. Neither knows who pulls away first. “Are you okay, Ath?” he asks, rubbing his nose against Ath’s.

He nods with a hum. “Are you?” Ragnar nods, too. “Didn’t know you had that in you, baby.”

Ragnar snickers, kissing the tip of his nose. “And this surprises you?”

“Nothing about you surprises me. Not anymore.” Athelstan scrunches his nose cutely after he kisses it. “We’ll have to be quick about cleaning up; someone might come looking for us.”

Ragnar snags his tunic off the floor and uses it to wipe away the cum dripping from between Ath’s legs. “Did you mean what you said? About belonging to me and only me? Forever?” he asks somewhat quietly, the insecurity he shows uncharacteristic of him.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Ragnar,” Ath says softly, his voice soothing, like a wool-lined blanket on a cold winter’s night, calming any worries Ragnar might be harboring within him. “You know that.”

Dropping his now-soiled tunic, Ragnar wraps his arms around him in a tight hug, corded muscles flexing beneath his skin. “Good; perfect. You’re perfect.”

Athelstan drapes his arms over Ragnar’s shoulders, hugging him back just as—if not more—tightly. Ragnar traces shapeless designs into the skin of Ath’s lower back, pressing soft, grounding kisses along the column of his neck. He kisses the bite mark he left, which is now starting to bruise. They slowly sink to the floor, Athelstan sitting in Ragnar’s lap, legs on either side of his waist, head resting against the lower part of his shoulder. “I love you, you know.”

“I know. I love you, too,” Ragnar says, almost as if he’s been saying it to him for decades, not years. As if every time he’s said it, it’s always been for Athelstan, even before he knew him. As if his love is reserved for Athelstan and Athelstan only. He lays his cheek on the top of his head, careful not to dig his chin into Ath’s skull. “When we go home in the spring, we’ll hold the biggest feast our halls have ever seen.”

Ath gazes up at him the best he can. “What for? What’ll we be celebrating, other than a successful return like always?”

Ragnar holds his hand, lacing their fingers together. “A wedding.”

“A wedding?” Ath questions, getting a nod in response. “Who’s?”

Ragnar breaks his gaze, looking up at the ceiling. “Our wedding.”

Blindsighted but elated, Athelstan shifts to look at him properly, refocusing Ragnar’s eyes where they belong��on him. “Our wedding?” Ragnar calmly nods like he didn’t just propose to him. “You need to work on your proposal skills, darling,” he giggles as a stupidly wide, toothy grin spreads across his face.

“Is that a yes, then?” Ragnar asks, donning a toothy smile of his own.

Athelstan holds Ragnar’s face in his hands and kisses him. “You dumbass, of course, it’s a yes.”

Ragnar kisses him again, then litters small kisses across his cheeks, chin, forehead, and anywhere else he can easily reach. “Perfect,” he kisses Ath’s lips. “Next time I take you, it’ll be on our marriage bed.”

“Ragnar!” Athelstan gasps with a slight laugh. His words made his softened cock twitch in curiosity. “You can’t just say that!”

“Yes, I can.” Ragnar squeezes his waist. “We both know you love it,” he teases, pressing his thumbs into Ath’s soft abdomen, messing up the dark hair there.

He rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh, unlacing his hand from Ragnar’s so he can drape them over Ragnar’s shoulders again. Ath holds his own hand, lacing his fingers together. “You’re so insufferable, you know that?”

Ragnar grins cheekily, far too proud of the fact. “You love it, don’t even try and deny it.”

“What if I do deny it? What’ll you do then?” Athelstan asks, licking his lips and shifting his hips to brush against Ragnar’s cock, who’s making an effort to chub up again.

He nips at Athelstan’s nose as a warning, a grin still spread across his face. “Something we can’t get caught doing in here, baby.” He reaches back to grab Athelstan’s tunic, blue eyes never leaving pale ones. Ath slips it over his head and stands, tugging on his trousers. Ragnar copies him, minus a shirt. They gather their things and clean their fluids off the floor as best as they can manage with the little supplies available. Once it looks like nothing sinful has occurred, the pair leaves the chapel hand in hand, eagerly heading for Ragnar’s chambers.

taglist: @moonlighttfoxx, @demon-of-the-ancient-world, and @procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics.

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mrsalwayswrite · 1 year ago

Text

To Call Forth Love - Chapter 18

Here it is, friends! The promised update! A massive thank you to everyone who replied to my prior post. You guys are truly the best and y'all give me the desire to finish this story.

I'll confess, this chapter is short (by my standards). I also feel like its not up to my usual quality of writing, so please give me some grace as I step back into the world of writing and remembering how to use words.

Lastly, if I missed anyone who wants to be added to the new tag list, please let me know!

Words: 3900

Warnings: Violence (both graphic and implied), swearing, Ivar still struggles with feelings

Series Masterlist

The day of reckoning had come.

A red sun rose that morning. The locals glanced nervously at the sky and muttered under their breath at the strange sight. But Ivar knew what it meant. A blessing on this day from the old gods.

Everything had fallen into place far more easily than he anticipated, a blessing indeed. The manipulation, the lies shared to convince the traitors to meet with him, feigned ignorance to soothe any worry of their deceptive being known. It all dripped from his lips like poisoned honey, until it was too late. Until the door was shut and a gun was pointed at their heads. Then he dropped the façade and allowed his guile to show. Only then were the traitors introduced to the truth of their failed scheme….and become close acquaintances with his knives.

It was a day for justice.

A day for vengeance.

And Ivar relished every moment.

*****

Amidst the dim light leaking through the few windows into the basement, the stench of dry, stale air, piss and blood permeated.

Two men knelt on the concrete ground before their executioner. Naked, with their clothing scattered beneath them, cut from their bodies with artful precision. Arms outstretched as in the worship, yet thick rope bound them to this position. Not as devout petitioners, but as those in bondage without even a god able to save them.

For Armageddon had arrived, led by a blue-eyed devil with a malicious smile and blood dripping from his knives.

Studying the one still conscious, he casually wiped the traitor's blood from his knife with a clean rag, for he refused to miss a single moment of pain or despair that was to come.

The trial of judgment had not truly begun yet. This was only the first act.

A vibration from his phone drew his attention away momentarily as he checked the text. A smirk adorned his face as he replaced the phone in his pocket and returned his gaze to the one before him.

"They are here." Ivar stated, "should I wake your friend? He's been unconscious for some time now."

The traitor remained silent, his eyes staring at the gray floor, even as blood slid down his skin like raindrops. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, almost as if in meditation. But Ivar knew better. The man was waiting. Biding his time. Enduring the pain until the others came.

Unfortunately for him, no amount of waiting would save him from what was to come.

Ivar glanced over to the other man on the left. Before he had even been restrained, the man had pissed himself and was begging for mercy, crying out and spewing secrets and half-truths in the futile hope for forgiveness. At the first pass of knives over his flushed skin, he fainted.

Fucking pathetic.

At Ivar's command, buckets of cold water had been tossed on the sniveling coward to awaken him. He would not get away from his prescribed torment. Not that easily. Twice the man fainted while receiving his medicine. And twice Ivar had him painfully revived. This third time, Ivar allowed him longer in his brief respite. But no longer.

The day of vengeance had arrived for those who betrayed the Lothbroks, and Ivar would see they were conscious for every moment of it.

"Wake him up."

At Ivar's command, his white-haired driver picked up the bucket at his feet and tossed it on the unconscious man.

The man sputtered and gagged, returning to the land of the living and the land of his torment. Immediately he began whimpering, as if that could save him. As if anything could save him now.

The echo of footfalls on the wooden staircase sounded in the basement.

Ivar's smile widened as he met the pained but calm eyes of the traitor kneeling before him. "Better start fucking begging for forgiveness."

Ragnar came around the corner, followed by Lagertha and Bjorn. A gasp filled the air once they came into sight. A sound of recognition. A sound of disbelief.

“Please! I'm sorry! He made me do it!” The coward began sobbing, his whole naked body shuddering at the strength of his cries and voice. “Please! I didn't–”

“Silence!” Ragnar roared, drawing close, eyeing both men. A predator inspecting the prey. His bright eyes glared at both men, focusing most of his anger on the one known to him. “You thought you could betray me?” He crouched before them, studying them, reading them. A devilish grin grew on his lips after a moment. “How'd that go?”

He chuckled darkly as he stepped to the side, already knowing the outcome but here to watch the show. With a quick glance to the side, he gave permission for another to step forward and to hear the case.

The coward continued to whimper but wisely made no move to steak. A pity really, Ivar was hoping to cut out his tongue.

"Kalf?" Lagertha asked, coming closer. The initial look of shock faded away, leaving behind confusion and anger. A deadly combination.

"Lagertha, there's been a misunder-" Kalf started to say but cried out in pain after Ivar hit him on the side of his head with his wolf's head cane.

Ivar returned the cane to his side, leaning back in his plastic chair casually. "Tsk tsk. You do not speak unless spoken to." He shifted his gaze to his father's first wife. “All the evidence is on the table over there.”

Lagertha followed the nod of Ivar's head, looking towards a table pressed against the wall. On it were stacks of papers, all the threads from the web of betrayal, cut and laid out to prove his betrayal. Every string, every conversation, every transaction, every knot in the thread. The damning evidence Ivar had been gathering for months. All there in black and white.

With a resigned sigh, Lagertha glanced down to Ivar. “I believe you.”

Ivar nodded silently, shifting the cane from his left hand to his right, still encased in the damn cast. He had never liked Lagertha and she had never liked him. They tolerated one another but that was the extent, prefering to avoid one another's company in casual or public settings. Except when it came to business. There was an unspoken respect they harbored for one another in this one regard; and for her to take Ivar's word alone on this matter, furthered his respect for her.

He did notice that Bjorn walked over and started leafing through the papers. Maybe his eldest brother was finally learning to use his half-wit brain.

The fierce businesswoman moved to stand in front of her lover, seemingly uncaring of the splatters of blood and shredded clothing under her heeled boots. “Why?”

He opened his mouth, eyes full of hurt and hope, but before any sounds escaped, she cut him off.

“Do not lie to me, Kalf.” She practically snarled, a she-wolf rising in fury, with no sight of a heartbroken lover.

He gazed at her, tone beseeching. “I did it for us.”

Her hand moved so fast that even Ivar did not catch it until the loud sound of a smack echoed in the basement, followed by Kalf's grunt as his head jerked to the side.

“If you did it for us, you would have included me in your schemes.”

Kalf worked his jaw before returning his gaze to his lover. “I planned on it, but–”

Another smack reverberated in the air.

“Try again.” Lagertha spat out.

Ivar could see it. The moment Kalf's pretense swiftly crumbled. His face hardened, eyes switching from a hopeful innocence to angry slits. His body tensed as if preparing to fight back, to finally show some spine and no longer take the abuse.

“I knew we could run the organization better. Make more money and be unstoppable. But I knew…I fucking knew you'd never leave Ragnar. You'd never leave his side because you'll always be his side bitch. So I did what I had to.” Kalf grinned but there was no humor. Blood darkened his teeth, giving him a monstrous look. “Does that make you feel better, baby? I'd have given you everything but you'll always run back to Ragnar. You never stopped loving him, you just got better at hiding it. What a fucking waste. I would have made you a queen!”

Lagertha yanked out a pistol from the holster on her thigh and aimed it at Kalf's head. Hand steady. Lips in a thin line. Eyes focused on him. A she-wolf ready for the kill.

Kalf chuckled darkly. “You won't do it, my love. You don't like getting your hands dirty.”

Ivar waited to see the outcome. Ragnar already commanded that Lagertha was to choose Kalf's fate. A fucking waste in Ivar's opinion but he relented. Hopefully he would be given the other one, an example needed to be made. Although the other man was only the accountant to scrub the books and try to hide the betrayal, not the mastermind that Kalf was, he was still involved. That was enough to earn his death. Preferably at Ivar's hands.

But Kalf's death would be decided by Lagertha.

Ragnar and Bjorn watched from the sidelines, witnesses to the impending justice against their organization and family. Holding a paper in each hand, fury coated Bjorn's face, understanding of the undermining that had been allowed to run rampant for too long, especially by one he trusted. With arms crossed and an impassive expression, Ragnar watched on. When Ivar caught his eye, he received a nod but returned his gaze to the show, waiting for his ex wife to make a decision. All the papers and what they represented were already reviewed by Ragnar as Ivar discovered the treachery.

After a long tense moment, a gun shot rang out. Almost deafening in the small basement. Yet no one flinched. The sound as familiar as birdsong for those still breathing.

Surprise and pleasure flooded through Ivar as the coward's head lolled loosely, brains blown out and splattered on the wall and floor. Payment for his crime painted for all to see.

Kalf jerked his head to look at his accomplice and then back to his lover, confusion and shock in the lines of his face.

“You shouldn't have dragged Philippe into your mess.” Lagertha calmly said, replacing her pistol at her thigh. “Ivar, he's all yours. Do with him what you want.” She took a step back. “Good bye, Kalf.” Then with the poise of a queen, she turned on her heel and headed back up the stairs, washing her hands of her former lover and his demise.

In the next moment, a hand landed on Ivar's shoulder. “Good work.” His father commended. He gave him one more fatherly pat before following Lagertha up the stairs.

Ivar grimaced as he knew his father was following his first wife to help her blow off some steam. Something that happened but no one spoke of.

A different set of footsteps came to his other side. As Ivar looked up at his eldest brother, a grimace on his own face at his parents, echoed Ivar's own sentiments. With a shake of his head, Bjorn looked down at Kalf who had gone suspiciously silent and still.

“I thought she would shoot you…guess she thought that was too fucking easy for you.”

Kalf spat out a bloody mess towards Bjorn's leather shoes, eyes blazing and fresh blood trickled down his chin.

“Have fun with that one.” Bjorn said. “And try to keep your cast clean. Fuck, you'll never get all that blood out.”

“I'll get a new fucking one. Fucking hell.”

“Fine.” Bjorn crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What are you going to do with him?”

Ivar shrugged, examining the man like a piece of marble waiting to be sculpted. “Cut off each of his own fingers and make him eat them?”

“That's disgusting.” Bjorn shuddered. “Don't take too long. We need you in Spain. We got a call on the way here.”

“What happened?”

“I'll fill you in after your fun, but it sounds like you'll be there a few days.”

“Okay.”

The eldest Lothbrok son opened his mouth for a moment, then stopped to lick his lips before starting quietly again. “Have you…have you heard from her yet?”

There was only one her that Bjorn could possibly be referring to and it made Ivar's blood boil even as his heart shattered.

“Shut the fuck up.” Ivar seethed, fingering the head of his cane, wondering how much trouble he would get in if he broke Bjorn's shins by striking him.

As if sensing the impending violence, Bjorn backed away. “Call me when you're done here.”

Ivar grunted, still beyond pissed his brother would bring her up right now.

“You know…my mom mentioned that Kalf had an almost irrational fear of fire.”

At Bjorn's lazy comment, Kalf's head lifted to stare at Ivar, face blanched and eyes wide with panic.

A truly ferocious grin appeared on the youngest Lothbrok's face at the pure terror radiating from the man before him. Even when his flesh had been pierced with Ivar's knives, beaten with Ivar's cane, the man had endured without fear. Oh, but the sweet scent of terror that radiated off him now…

Ivar barely heard Bjorn's retreating footsteps up the stairs. He turned to look at his driver, his long white hair tied back, highlighting his cruel scar on the side of his face.

“Toss me your lighter.”

Pleas for mercy tainted the air, but not for long.

*********

As he stepped out of the elevator, it took all of his mental capability to keep his feet moving purposefully and his gait steady. His eyes were gritty and dry from lack of sleep, his body threatened to revolt against his restless mind and collapse in desperate need of rest. He refused to acknowledge it, propelling himself forward. After this one last meeting, he would allow himself to give in and seek the rest his body so desperately needed.

Ignoring those scurrying around, he passed the several offices on the top floor of Ragnarssons Trading. The scowl he wore must have been fearsome for how quickly it made those plebeians scatter out of his way. Wise on their part. He was in no mood for empathy or kindness, traits he was not commonly known for anyway. He just wanted to fucking sleep. The temptation to stab anyone who tried to stop him was exceptionally high.

“You live!”

“Fuck off.” Ivar grumbled, more out of habit than true ill intent. Well, if he tried to stop him, there may be some violence.

Falling into step with him, Hvitserk looked smart in his gray suit, a clear contrast from Ivar's own rumpled jeans with t-shirt and leather jacket. “How was Spain? No, wait, you were just in Morocco. Or was it Turkey again?”

“India.”

“Hmm…What I heard, you've spent more time in dungeons and airplanes than in a bed. Those bags under your eyes make you look like a zombie. Ah hell, when did you last sleep?”

Ivar grunted, annoyed with his brother's ceaseless chatter and the reminder of his lack of self-care. “Father in his office?”

“I think so. I was about to go for a late lunch. Want me to wait for you?”

“No, I'd probably fall asleep before the food came.”

Hvitserk chuckled but did not dispute the claim.

The pair arrived at the door for Ragnar's office. With a quick knock on the wood and a following ‘enter’, Hvitserk opened the door for them.

Ragnar sat at his large desk, an organized chaos to all the things upon it. Scattered papers and files resided in piles, along with a cheap, tourist paper map of Stockholm spread out and a bronzed human skull which Ragnar refused to admit if it was real or not. Ivar had always bet it was real.

Torstein also occupied the room, standing behind the desk beside Ragnar, pointing at the laptop screen open in front of them. They must have been continuing speaking of logistics for a particular expansion of goods into Stockholm.

At their entrance, Ragnar kept his gaze on the screen while addressing him. “I thought you were coming in tomorrow?”

“I can just as easily report today.” Ivar ungraciously plopped into one of the leather chairs in front of Ragnar's desk. He winced at the impact and the sharp pain shooting down his legs. With more care, he set his right hand, still in the cast, on the arm rest.

At Ivar's audible pained inhale, Ragnar aimed his piercing gaze at his youngest son. “You look like shit.”

Ivar snorted. “The devil doesn't sleep and neither do I.”

That made Ragnar smirk and Torstein chuckle. From the other seat beside him, Ivar could feel Hvitserk's eye roll. Everyone knew that Ivar had been running himself ragged, anything to keep himself busy, which usually involved his face glued to a computer or phone screen or blood on his hands. Ever since Kalf's fall from grace and his fiery demise, Ivar had been cauterizing the wound left in the company…and reminding people what happened when they placed themselves on the Lothbrok's bad side.

“Suit yourself. Tor, finish this and I'll make a phone call–” Ragnar spoke to his friend but Ivar tuned him out.

He closed his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest as he waited. His father was not wrong. He felt like shit. Then again, he had felt like shit for the past three weeks now, ever since Kari had told him she needed space. So he focused on what he could do for the family business. Anything to distract himself from what his heart yearned for. During this time, he learned it was easier to feel physically shitty and move on. It was much harder to ignore and move on when his heart was fractured and bleeding her name.

Eyes closed, his mind began to drift lazily like an autumn leaf, thoughts moving at a sluggish pace due to his exhaustion. He had tried to sleep in his car on the way here from the airport but sleep eluded him- still too wound up from the flight, too many cigarettes and too much caffeine. The trifecta of sleep deprivation. He never slept on planes, even on private planes, he could never relax enough. Especially when they flew over open water.

A buzzing from his pocket jerked him out of his almost meditative state. Without opening his eyes, he dug around in his pocket and pulled his personal phone out. Only a few people had his private number, preferring to direct most of his calls to his work phone, which lay silent in his other pocket.

“‘eah?” He mumbled amidst a sudden yawn.

A hesitant but professional male voice spoke. “Mr Lothbrok?”

“Huh?”

“Is this–ah, is this Ivar Lothbrok?”

His brain awoke on full alert at the implementation that a stranger had his personal number. “Who the fuck are you?” Those sluggish thoughts went into overdrive, trying to recognize the voice or how this fucker got a hold of his number.

“I'm Nurse Olsen, calling from the General Hospital. A patient we have gave us your name and number as an emergency contact. My apologies for bothering you, we just needed to verify. Do you know a Kari Larsen?”

What racing thoughts died a spectacular death by crashing into a wall of shock and disbelief.

Someone was calling him about Kari.

As an emergency contact.

From a hospital.

Where she is a patient.

A PATIENT!

In a strange form of whiplash, his brain went from a screeching halt in shock to overdrive of all the reasons she could possibly be in the hospital, each scenario worse than its predecessor. “Is she hurt?” He wheezed out, as his heart and lungs threatened to be strangled with the sudden fear that exploded within him.

“Sir, I'm not allowed to discuss patients’ wellbeings over the phone–”

“IS SHE HURT?!” He screamed, the building panic in his chest rising higher and higher, suffocating him.

His mind easily conjured her laying in a hospital bed, nurses and doctors swarming her like parasites, sticking tubes in her, cleaning up her precious blood, all in an attempt to save her. She laid there unconscious to her precarious position. Or maybe she was screaming for him. That was how they got his number. She needed him as she lay dying.

He drew a ragged breath but it failed to relieve the painful pressure in his chest. Gods, if she died….he promised. He promised to take care of her.

A new level of loathing sunk its claws into him, a demon from the darkest pits burrowed into his mind, taunting, tormenting.

He had promised.

And he failed.

Again.

“Mr Lothbrok, are you able to come to the hospital?” The nurse sighed before speaking again.

“Yes.” He croaked out.

“Excellent, what you can do is park–”

But the nurse's explanation was cut off as Ivar ended the call.

Ivar stumbled to his feet, grabbing the edge of the desk to steady himself. The floor beneath him shifted and rolled like waves. Or maybe it was the demon cackling in his ears, messing with his equilibrium. Spots danced in his vision but he ignored them, pushing past. He had to get to her. He had to see her. Was his heart even beating anymore? His chest burned, each breath a struggle to take. As he tried to slip his phone back into his pocket, he realized his hands were shaking. Or was it his whole body?

What exhaustion previously had taken root was brutally ripped out and replaced with a buzzing, paralyzing panic.

“Ivar? What happened?” Hvitserk's voice broke through. His hands grabbed his younger brother's shoulders, saving him from falling in his unstable haste to move. “Ivar?!”

“I–I have to go to the hospital.” Tears welled in his eyes, that terror and panic finally having risen to his mind, strangling his rationality, constricting his thoughts until all he could think of was Kari and he failed.

“What happened? Oh shit. Is…was that about Kari?” Hvitserk's eyes widened in horror.

“She's there.” Ivar gasped, weakly pushing his brother aside, hands still shaking. ”She's there right now. I have to go– fuck, I've got to see her.”

Stumbling, forcing himself faster than his crippled legs would allow, to escape the way his chest was collapsing even as he fought for breath, fought for each step. He had to see her. There was no other option.

She had to be okay. His kitten. He refused. He fucking refused to believe she was dying, even as his mind continued to create horrific scenes.

This was not how he wanted to be reunited with her.

Hvitserk grabbed his arm, steadying his erratic pace. “I'm coming with you.”

Gratitude swelled within Ivar but the panic clogging his throat refused to let the words pass.

The two rushed into the hallway, as fast as Ivar's crippled legs would allow. Hvitserk already had his phone out, calling Ivar's driver to have his car ready at the front for them. At the pounding footfalls behind them, Ivar glanced over his shoulder to see Ragnar following like an intimidating guardian angel.

Ragnar snarked. “Hurry your ass up or I'll carry you on my back like when you were a boy.”

“You're too fragile, old man.” Ivar managed to retort.

“Shut the fuck up, you little asshole, and let's go get your girl.”

As the three of them hurried out of the building, the same thought swirled like a growing storm in his mind.

Hold on, Kari, I'm coming. Just please hold on.

Tag List:

@southernbe @tessakate @ivarlover @nothingtolosebutweight @beautifulweaselplaidsalad @noway4u @cdauni @istorkyou @ringpopdust @lotr-got

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imeanyourmomsprettyhot · 2 years ago

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I Still Hate You || Hvitserk

masterlist

I got the inspiration for this post from this prompt:

"I don't like you, I just find you hot"

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"I knew you'd come back," you laughed, as the tall son of Ragnar entered your room.

"Don't you conceive yourself as being something important!" He spat, as he got closer to the bed you were lying on, "I don't like you, I just find you hot."

Hvitserk pulled you on you legs closer to the edge of the bed, where he hovered on top of you. His lips met yours, and his tongue instantly entered your mouth.

You were the wife of Bjorn Ironside, which was enough reason for the other sons of Ragnar Lothbrok to hate you. But after a strange encounter with Hvitserk the other night, when your husband left with the ships, he started visiting you, even though he clearly told you it was a mistake and that it will never happen again.

He for sure didn't like you, but he liked your body. He liked how your warmth feels around his cock, and he liked the sounds you make while he fucks you.

You loved your husband, you really did. But he was never able to fully please you. Bjorn was always gentle with his women, but you found, you needed the roughness of one of your enemies, to finally cum.

Hvitserk's messy kiss lead to an end, leaving you with an all wet mouth and an even wetter spot between your legs.

He forcefully turned you around, so you were now on all fours—He never wanted to look at your face while he fucked you;he hated you too much for that.

He roughly pulled your dress up and pushed your head down in the pillow, your ass now being on full display. It didn't take long for him to get rid of his pants, and he pushed his whole length inside, a splash of pain rushing through your body.

He didn't let you adjust to his size, he immediately pounded into you in whatever paste he needed right now.

You cunt was drooling over how harsh he treated you, and through the pain, you felt pleasure. The sound of his skin slapping on yours, filled the room up completely, almost covering up your loud moans.

A hard smack landed on your ass cheek, which turned into a dark red shade. You cried out at the sudden pain, but you secretly liked it.

He thrusted into you even harder, hitting your g-spot with full force. It was painful, but it made you even needier. His hand was still hardly pressing down your head in your pillow, keeping you in place.

He smacked your, already red, cheek again, earning a whimper from you, as tears start to form in your eyes. He loved the sound of your cries. He loved seeing you in pain.

Hvitserk's growls got louder and breathier, as you noticed him being close. But he did someone unexpected. He turned you back around, one of your legs being over his shoulder.

He now could enter you deeper, putting you in even more pleasurable-pain.

He stopped pounding for a moment, before another smack hit the side of your face.

"Look at me, you whore!" He commanded, and you did as he said.

His hips started grinding again. He was looking you deeply in the eyes—They were filled with so much anger and hatred.

You had similar sex like this a few times with Bjorn, after you two fought, but it was never close to what his brother did to you.

Your mouth was wide opened, and desperate cries were coming out of it. Hvitserk was soon to cum, as his grunts got heavier, and the thrusts sloppier.

He still hasn't looked away from your eyes, his were deeply focused on yours. His breath became more and more unsteady, while your moans increased with every painful pound that shot through your core.

A few more thrusts was all he needed to release his load all over your stomach, some of it landing on your dress.

The way he treated you like a dirty slut, made you cum right after him, with a loud scream. Hvitserk was able to make you cum, even after he stopped touching you. This was what made you so attached to him.

"You fucking bitch, just look at you," he stood up, pulling his trousers on, "So fucking needy for my cock."

"Please fuck me again," you begged him, breathing heavily.

But he just laughed at you, "I still hate you, you little slut. I don't intend to make you feel good, you understand that?"

He quickly left the room, leaving you alone with the mess he made, still horny and greedily waiting for the next time he visits you.

#smut #vikings smut #hvitserk smut #hvitserk x reader #vikings hvitserk #hvitserk ragnarsson #hvitserk x you #vikings fanfiction #vikings fic #vikings fanfic #vikings fandom #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #prompts #writing prompts #mal´s writing corner

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mommytauriel · 1 year ago

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+ · 。~ OC chart for Thyra

This is my oc chart for my oc Thyra! She will be the main character for my upcoming Vikings story! I’m still wondering if I should post the story on here as well, please let me know what you guys think! I hope you guys like her!

This was my first time doing something like this! I’m definitely going to be doing this for other oc’s of mine 🤗

Feel free to send in some asks or questions that you have for this story! I would love to answer them 🫶🏻

#🧣oc thyra #vikings #vikings x reader #vikings fandom #vikings fanfiction #vikings fic #ragnar lothbrok #bjorn lothbrok #vikings ubbe #ubbe ragnarsson #ubbe fanfic #ivar the boneless #vikings ivar #ivar ragnarsson #vikings fluff

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sigridsdottir · 2 years ago

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vikings + fave bts pics (2/?)

#vikings #vikings fandom #vikingsedit #vikingsfanart #vikingsimagines #vikings tv show #ragnar lothbrok #aethelstan #floki the boatbuilder #rollo lothbrok #lagertha #auslaug #bjorn ironside #ubbe ragnarsson #hvitserk lothbrok #sigurd snake in the eye #ivar the boneless

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smashly93 · 18 days ago

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@levithestripper @grantairescurls @leslie-red

I absolutely love the fact that we are all united in our love for THIS man 🫶

#travis fimmel #vikings #vikings fandom

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therealcalicali · 1 month ago

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So now that Vikings has been added on Netflix, I'm probably gonna rewatch the whole series again just because it's binge watching time of the year. And.. I might regret it because of the finale season did ruin the series for everyone. I'm so still bitter about that.

And I might maybe write a story, if the series might inspire me despite the franchise being over after all these years. I can't make any problems though. But I know it's a bad idea since we're dead fandom now.

So, if you don't mind, could you help me think up a few things for characters? Because I would have so many, not too many, original characters for my own story. I already have love interests for Ivar, and even Hvitserk too. If I'm being honest... I have always had these characters intended for them, but never even written the story after the series ended. But if there is a chance that I'd have love interests for any other brothers, I'm stuck on that? But I have some of my own face claim ideas though. Could you help? Only if you want to. But, just in case.. Some things that I am trying to figure out. Not that you have to help.

I know you have mentioned before people who had naturally red hair were killed because they were just a "rare defect" to Vikings. Something like that. But I remember you said that a long time ago. So if I may end up having a red haired character, who wasn't at all killed, who would you imagine her being in a ship with? I'm still kinda iffy about this character.

And if there is a rare possibility that a Greek person, character, could be somehow added into the series. Who do you think could be shipped with her?

And characters.. There are two potential characters who have European with blonde hair and blue eyes. I know that wasn't uncommon. But still.

Or someone with brown hair and brown eyes.

I know those are vague descriptions. But I'm still so iffy about wanting to write this story or not too.

And I'm not sure if it's in the Vikings era, or modern times. But at the same time.. Some of these people who I have for face claims have warrior costumes, I could imagine them as characters in different eras - if that makes sense? Photoshoots of them wearing warrior costumes like that could work for series like Vikings, Game Of Thrones, fandoms like that too.

Hey sweetie,❤️😘

That's awesome. I'm glad you're considering writing something for the Vikings fandom. First and foremost, I want to clarify something about redheads. You may be attributing the assertion about redheads to me in error or misinterpretation. When it comes to redheads, Vikings actually had many hair colors, including red. Norsemen from the western parts of Scandinavia, like Denmark were quite rife with red hair as it was quite common and even considered a genetic trait specific to Nordic tribes. Here are some references:

"Did Vikings Have Red Hair?" - Scandinavia Facts

"The Norse Origins Of The Red Hair Gene" - The Dockyards

As for genetics/DNA, Norsemen were known for their exploration so they did eventually intermix with other ethnicities in various regions across Europe and beyond. Here are some groups and regions where Nordic genetics are prevalent according to "Mitochondrial DNA variation in the Viking age population of Norway" - Royal Society Publishing:

"Expert argues Vikings carried redhead gene to Scotland" - The Scotsman

Scandinavians: Modern-day people from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark are direct descendants of the Norsemen and carry their genetic heritage.

British and Irish: Due to Viking invasions and settlements, many people in the British Isles have Norse ancestry.

Icelanders: Iceland has a population with a high percentage of Norse ancestry, as it was settled by Norsemen in the 9th century.

Faroe Islanders: The Faroe Islands were also settled by Norsemen, and the population there carries Norse genetic heritage.

Greenlanders: Norsemen settled in Greenland in the 10th century, and their genetic legacy can still be found in the population today.

North Americans: Some Native American tribes, particularly in the Great Lakes region, have genetic links to Norsemen due to Viking expeditions to North America.

As for intermarriage it was rare, as with every other type of peoples on the planet in order to keep culture, wealth, homogeny and land within the control of one's own people. But when Norsemen did intermarry/produce offspring it was with these peoples:

Anglo-Saxons: In the British Isles, Vikings intermarried with the local Anglo-Saxon population.

Slavs: In Eastern Europe, there were interactions and intermarriages with Slavic peoples.

Celtic Tribes: In regions like Ireland and Scotland, Vikings intermarried with Celtic tribes.

Finno-Ugric Tribes: In the northern regions, there were intermarriages with Finno-Ugric tribes (Finns: The largest Finno-Ugric group, primarily residing in Finland. Estonians: Inhabitants of Estonia, another significant Finno-Ugric group. Hungarians (Magyars): The people of Hungary, who also speak a Finno-Ugric language. Sami: Indigenous people of northern Scandinavia, known for their traditional reindeer herding. Mari: An ethnic group in Russia, primarily residing in the Republic of Mari El. Udmurts: Inhabitants of the Udmurt Republic in Russia. Komi: Found in the Komi Republic in Russia. Mordvins: An ethnic group in Russia, primarily in the Republic of Mordovia. Khanty and Mansi: Indigenous peoples of the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug in Russi)

Native American Tribes: Inuit: Norse explorers, such as those led by Leif Erikson, are thought to have encountered the Inuit people in what is now Canada. Beothuk: Norse settlers may have interacted with the Beothuk people in Newfoundland. Winnipeg: Norse explorers might have had contact with various indigenous groups in the region around the Great Lakes.

As for female beauty standards, the most desirable was blonde hair (had to be long regardless of color), blue eyes, and pale skin were considered desirable traits in Viking society. The same standards existed for men, with such traits being health, strength, and attractiveness. The male Vikings of course were also expected to be tall and muscular, reflecting their physically demanding lifestyle. "What did the Vikings look like?" - National Museum of Denmark

Alright, now that I've gone on a tangent, here are suggestions for your characters:😂

"European with blonde hair and blue eyes. I know that wasn't uncommon."

Eirlys Torsdottir: She is 17-year-old, a striking young woman with long, golden blonde hair that flows down her back in soft, cascading waves, reminiscent of the sun's rays. Her piercing blue eyes shine with intelligence and determination, framed by dark, thick lashes that enhance her captivating gaze. Her fair skin is flawless, with a natural rosy tint that highlights her delicate, high cheekbones and perfectly sculpted features. Eirlys's face possesses an ethereal, almost divine quality, with a gracefully arched brow and full, rose-tinted lips that add to her otherworldly beauty. She carries herself with the poise and elegance of a goddess, her every movement exuding grace and strength. Family Background: Eirlys is the daughter of Tor "Red," a powerful and feared Jarl from a Viking settlement with strained relations with Kattegat. Known for his berserker skills that leave him drenched in blood, Tor is a fearsome warrior whose reputation precedes him. He is a handsome man, more fetching than his wife, but has no time for frivolous conversations or flirtations. As a hands-on father, Tor keeps Eirlys and her twin brother, Aksel, close, along with their eldest brother, Brynjar, who is 19. She is fiercely protective of her brothers and is willing to do anything to keep them safe, even if it means killing by sword or poison. Eirlys' family is not only handsome but also well-respected and feared, with even Tor's two older brothers being equally fearsome and accomplished. Social Dynamics: Eirlys's father, Tor "Red," often brings his children to political talks in Kattegat, wanting them to witness and learn from the dealings firsthand. Despite their strained relations with the Ragnarssons, Eirlys's family is well-respected and feared due to their wealth and influence. Eirlys, in particular, is underestimated by the Ragnarssons, who view her as merely a beautiful treasure. Tor uses this to his advantage, conspiring with Eirlys to use her beauty to gain valuable information from the boastful Ragnarssons. Skills and Interests: Eirlys is well-trained in weaponry, a skill honed by her father to ensure she can defend herself when necessary. In addition, her mother has secretly taught her the art of poisoning, making Eirlys a capable and deadly force in her own right. She also possesses a deep intelligence and an acute awareness of the political landscape, making her a formidable player in the game of power. Ambitions: Eirlys dreams of earning her place in her father's legacy, using her skills and intelligence to rise to power. She aspires to become a master of both combat and political intrigue, combining the warrior spirit of her father with the cunning of her mother. Though the Ragnarssons may underestimate her, Eirlys has many surprises in store for them, especially Bjorn, who believes he can easily win her hand in marriage.

"Or someone with brown hair and brown eyes."

Ingrid Skjoldsdottir: She is a 17-year-old, a striking young woman with long, flowing brunette hair that catches the light in rich chestnut hues. Her light brown eyes are warm and expressive, often giving away more than she intends. She has thick, almost unruly brows that are always furrowed and expressive, adding to her intense and captivating gaze. Ingrid has cherubic features, with soft, delicate dimpled cheeks and a dimpled chin that adds a touch of youthful charm to her face. Her fair skin is smooth and unblemished, a testament to her well-cared-for upbringing in the comfortable longhouse of her uncle. Her oval-shaped face exudes grace and poise, hinting at a deep intellect and strength beneath her delicate exterior. Background: Ingrid was orphaned at a young age when her parents succumbed to an unknown illness brought back from a Viking raid. Since then, she has been raised by her uncle, Eirik, a seasoned Viking raider who lost his wife in childbirth. Despite the hardships, Eirik has ensured that Ingrid is well taken care of, providing her with a comfortable and well-furnished home. Ingrid has grown up in the bustling town of Kattegat, where she has become highly observant of the goings-on, thanks to her uncle's stories and her own keen senses. Personality: Ingrid is fiery and opinionated, yet never rude. She speaks her mind with a sharp wit but always maintains a respectful demeanor. Her keen observance makes her a valuable confidante, and she often knows more about the inner workings of Kattegat than most. Though she dreams of a good match, she has little patience for suitors like Ivar the Boneless, whom she views as a belligerent manchild despite his status as a prince. Skills and Interests: Raised in a household of warriors, Ingrid is no stranger to the ways of the Vikings. She is proficient in the use of weapons, having been trained by her uncle, but she also has a delicate touch inherited from her mother. She enjoys making clothing, a skill passed down from her late mother, and often crafts beautiful pieces that attract the attention of Kattegat's elite. Additionally, Ingrid has a secret: since the age of twelve, she has had visions. She keeps these to herself, only sharing her warnings with those directly affected to prevent disasters and death. Ambitions: Ingrid hopes to find a suitable match that aligns with her values and aspirations. She seeks a partner who respects her intellect and independence, someone who can appreciate both her fiery spirit and her delicate craftsmanship. Though she is content in Kattegat, she harbors dreams of exploring the wider world, guided by the visions that have shaped her understanding of fate.

"A red-haired character.":

Sigrun Thorsdottir: She is an 18-year-old, 5'6" young woman with a sturdy yet graceful build. Her fiery red hair, inherited from her father's side, cascades in thick, wild waves down to her waist. She often wears it in intricate braids adorned with small, handcrafted beads that her mother made. Her striking blue eyes are framed by long, dark lashes, and her fair skin is dotted with faint freckles, giving her a fresh, youthful appearance. Sigrun's strong jawline and high cheekbones reflect her father's rugged lineage, while her delicate features and graceful demeanor echo her mother's refined artistry. She has caught the eye of several Ragnarssons, especially Hvitserk and Ubbe. Though they are princes, she tries to avoid them due to their reputations of ruining the reputations of maidens and thralls who work for their family. She is immensely well-trained but crafty enough to navigate certain circles cleverly. Despite their interest, Sigrun remains cautious and selective about whom she interacts with, particularly avoiding the Ragnarssons and their troublesome reputations. Family Background: Sigrun is the daughter of Thorvald, a master blacksmith renowned for his exceptional skill in crafting axes and other weaponry. Her father’s forge is a bustling hub of activity, frequented by warriors and traders seeking his superior craftsmanship. Her mother, Astrid, is equally celebrated for her exquisite jewelry, coveted by wealthy Vikings and Jarls for their opulence and beauty. Sigrun has three brothers: an older brother, Njall, 21, who is following in their father's footsteps as a blacksmith; and two younger brothers, Baldr and Rurik, who are 12 and 10 years old, respectively. Growing up in such an environment, Sigrun has inherited a mix of strength and elegance, adept with both a sword and a jeweler’s delicate tools. Her family is well-respected and intermingles with the more prominent types in Kattegat due to their wealth and trades. Personality: Sigrun possesses a spirited and independent nature, unafraid to speak her mind and stand her ground. She is fiercely loyal to her family and friends, often putting their needs before her own. Her keen intellect and quick wit make her a respected voice in her community. Despite her tough exterior, Sigrun has a gentle heart and a deep appreciation for beauty and craftsmanship, a trait she shares with her mother.

Skills and Interests: From a young age, Sigrun has been trained in both the art of blacksmithing and jewelry making. She can forge a weapon as skillfully as she can design a necklace. Her proficiency with weapons is matched by her talent in creating intricate designs, blending strength and beauty. She also has a deep connection to nature, often spending her free time exploring the forests and mountains around her home, finding inspiration in the world around her. Ambitions: Sigrun dreams of becoming a master craftswoman in her own right, combining the skills of her parents to create items of unmatched beauty and utility. She aspires to travel beyond her homeland of Kattegat, showcasing her work and learning new techniques from other cultures.

#answers #answered asks #vikings fandom #asks and answers

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woahhhgwendolyn · 5 months ago

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Being Bjorn's Woman Would Include

-Being his woman would include a lot of things. It can also be overwhelming sometimes being with him.

-One of the things that is included being in a relationship with him is that he is so protective of you. Even in ways you would never imagine. Every time that you go with him to travel, he is watching you at all times and always makes you walk with him locking arms

-He is the type of man that loves to cuddle. So, every night when you both get into bed, he just holds on to you and almost makes you stay there.

-He loves spoiling you. Like a lot. whenever he goes out to travel or fight, he always makes sure to pick you up something. whether it is a dress or jewelry. Or even something to cook with if he passes it in the markets.

-He is such a gentle man with you. He would hate if you had gotten hurt because of him. That is one of his nightmares. He hates the thought of you in general in his watch getting hurt

-He also makes sure that you are never cold in the winter. He does not want you getting sick. So, he gives you one of his furs to make sure you do not get cold so easily.

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milbethmorillo · 1 year ago

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Here it is❤️❤️ comfort sketch 😌 and yes I turned this cutie into a Tshirt and sticker which you can get at

https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/48568280-ivar-berry?store_id=185142

I loved that clip of Alex and the strawberries, it was so so cute!

#fanart #vikings #chibi #viking #history vikings #ragnar lothbrok #ivar the boneless #ivar #ivar ragnarsson #vikings fandom #vikings fanart

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therealvikingstrash · 1 year ago

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@vikingwarrioraragnarsson No, they are not from google. Those gifs you used are from a friend of mine and other gif makers. Stop being a stealing cunt.

How mature to block me instead of apologizing for STEALING other peoples works. I am so sick of this stupid fucking RPC. Fuck off. Seriously. Get lost. You have no place in the Vikings Fandom and NO right to use other peoples art, gifs or ANYTHING.

#vikingwarrioraragnarsson #vikings fandom

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its-all-or-nothing94 · 2 years ago

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Ravenblade - Part 2 // Ivar Lothbrok x OC

Summary: As Björn would like to keep an eye on his mysterious sister, she has her sights set on someone completely different, to the surprise of her brother and his.

Warnings: Language, Description of violence, light smut (implied but not fully described)

Pairing: Ivar x OC

A/N: Here is the second chapter :) Still, let me know if you wanna be on the tag list ;)

Masterlist

That evening the great sacrifice takes place, which is supposed to bring victory to the Vikings over the Saxons. Some Earl has decided to sacrifice himself for the cause, and Liv now stands beside her big brother and his brothers before the ceremony.

"You still owe me an answer," Bjorn whispers to her as they wait for Lagertha.

"I don't owe you anything," she says, continuing to look straight ahead.

"I still want to know why you're doing this and whose side you're on."

Now Liv looks at her big brother. "I am on Ragnar's side. I am doing this to avenge his death. Nothing more, nothing less."

"But why?"

"Have you seen him in the last ten years? No? Well, I have. And I have my reasons. But let my reasons be mine."

Then, as Lagertha begins to speak in the old language up front, Liv notices Björn slinking away. She doesn't care, but now she is standing next to Ivar. She looks at him briefly, and her eyes meet his. She grins briefly before turning her attention back to the front.

Lagertha is now sacrificing the Earl. Liv watches closely. It somehow fascinates her how her mother pushes the sword further and further into the man's chest.

Liv looks enthusiastically at Sven, who looks at her with a slight smirk. She feels Ivar's eyes on her. Liv likes it when a man is interested in her. It makes it all the easier to manipulate him. But with Ivar, it is something else. Somehow she feels drawn to him.

Once again, her gaze wanders to him, who is also looking at her with his deep blue eyes. A smile creeps onto her face.

When the ritual ends, Liv sees Ivar in front of the large bowl of blood. She walks up to him and stands next to him.

"May I?" she then asks, pointing to the blood. Ivar looks at her in surprise and then nods hesitantly.

Painting blood on someone is a sign of affection. Liv taps two fingers each into the blood and then looks Ivar in the eye before wiping her fingers across his face. Ivar closes his eyes briefly and then looks at her again. They maintain eye contact for a moment before Ivar dips his fingers in the blood and then does the same to Liv.

From a distance, they are watched by Björn and Ubbe. "I don't like this," murmurs Ubbe. He is not comfortable with the young warrior and does not trust her.

Björn shakes his head with his arms crossed. "She's manipulating him. That's what she's good at."

"Normally, I wouldn't have thought of Ivar as someone women so easily manipulate, but with her... I'm not so sure," the younger of the two concludes.

When everyone has retired to sleep before leaving, Liv sneaks out of the hut she and the Ravenblade have been assigned. She walks through the deserted town and creeps towards one particular hut.

Carefully she listens at the door and hears nothing. Then she opens it quietly and squeezes through a small crack. In front of her on a chair lies Hvitserk, snoring heartily. The position can't be comfortable, Liv thinks to herself and tiptoes past him. Then she stands in front of two doors. She briefly points her finger at both and then decides on the first one.

Silently she opens it, and to her luck, it is the room she was looking for. But to her surprise, he is sitting, still awake, with his back to her, and seems bent over something. Still silent, Liv closes the door again and takes a few steps toward her.

"You're quiet, but I know you're here," Ivar says suddenly, then turns to her.

She looks at him with raised eyebrows, a smug smile on her face. "But only because I wanted you to," she says, winking at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asks then.

Liv takes a few steps across the room, looking at what he owns. "Oh, I felt like company..."

Ivar follows her closely with his gaze. He can't figure her out. Liv walks up to him and stops in front of him. She leans down to him and looks him in the eye.

"Don't you want my company?" she asks directly.

"I... Uh..." he stammers briefly, which throws him off.

"I can leave as well," she says, standing up again and walking towards the door.

"No!" he says quickly. "No. Please stay."

Liv smiles at him and then walks back towards him. She pulls a chair towards her and sits in front of Ivar, so they are at eye level. She is so close to him that her knees touch his, and she has placed them to the left and right of his legs.

"Tell me something about yourself, Ivar the Boneless. That's what they call you, isn't it?"

Ivar nods, slightly befuddled, then looks away. "They do..."

"You don't like the name? I think it's a great one. Not as boring as 'the feared' or 'the cruel'. Most of the time, they don't live up to their names anyway, but you... You're different."

Ivar looks her in the eye again and notices that Liv is getting closer to him. Suddenly she puts her lips to his, and he enjoys it briefly before pulling away from her again.

Slightly ashamed, he looks to the floor and bites his lips. "I can't..." he says, turning away from her. "If you're looking for that kind of company, I'm the wrong guy..." he continues seriously, and Liv looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What are you trying to say? If I want to spend time with you, I want to spend it with you, not with someone else."

Ivar looks at her again, and Liv can tell he is incredibly uncomfortable. "I can't... I can't do this. It."

Liv continues to look at him without making a face. Ivar would have expected something else. Either she would laugh at him or feel sorry for him, but nothing of the sort comes from Liv.

"Have you also been told that a deaf person cannot communicate?" she asks, and Ivar does not know what she is getting at. She takes a deep breath and then moves closer to him again. "How many times have you tried? With how many women?"

"Only with one, and it didn't work," Ivar says quietly.

Now Liv begins to laugh softly. But it's not that she's laughing at him, but rather at his pathetic attempt.

"And that already tells you it can't be done?" she asks, kneeling before him.

She starts to undo his trousers, and Ivar grabs her wrists. "What are you doing?" he asks, irritated, but she grins at him.

"I'm trying to prove you wrong." Hesitantly, Ivar lets go of Liv's wrists, and she expertly undoes his trousers.

Ivar feels the lust rising in him and his body changing. She looks him in the eyes and then begins to massage him slowly. Her movements become faster and her grip tighter, but Ivar doesn't mind. Then she winks at him and lowers her head.

It is not long before Ivar can no longer hold on. His body tenses, and he opens his mouth. He tries to stifle a moan and then looks down at Liv, who is just breaking away from him.

She straightens up again, grabs a piece of cloth lying on the table, and wipes her mouth and hands before looking at him triumphantly.

"What did I say? I guess it all comes down to technique."

With those words, she tosses the rag back on the table, winks at Ivar one last time, and then leaves the hut. Ivar looks after her in disbelief. How is he supposed to keep his hands off her now?

The following day the time has come. The enormous army leaves for England. All along the docks, people are saying goodbye to their loved ones.

Liv walks towards the dock where her boat is moored and stops as she passes her brother's ship. It is right opposite hers. Lagertha is standing there with Björn, saying goodbye to him.

"Oh, how sentimental," she says with amusement, and Lagertha looks at her. As always, Liv has uncovered her sarcastic smile.

"I just wish him good luck on his journey, and may the gods watch over him," Lagertha justifies herself. "Wouldn't you like someone to say that to you?"

"I don't need that... I know the gods are with me. I don't need someone like you to tell me that. And luck is for beginners." Liv walks over to her ship and then looks at Ivar momentarily. "Hello, Ivar," she says, winks at him, and then hops onto her boat.

"Well, folks? Are you ready?" she asks the crowd, where her people are already busy making final arrangements for departure.

"Here you are," Sven says, coming up to Liv. "Where were you tonight?" he asks more quietly, looking at her.

"Oh, here and there," she replies, and her gaze briefly wanders to Ivar, who keeps looking at her.

Sven follows her gaze and glares at Ragnar's son. "Were you with him?" he asks, following Liv across the boat.

"Even if I was, it's none of your business Sven, understand?" she says more seriously now.

She is always very relaxed with her people, but if someone tries to undermine her authority or gets too nosy, she is good at putting a stop to it. Now Liv turns to her whole troop.

"It's finally time!" she shouts, then climbs a mast. "We are travelling to England, and we will avenge the death of Ragnar Lothbrok! Until now, you have followed me, and I hope you will continue to follow me! We are the Ravenblade! Du bekar! Du bekar!" shouts Liv, and her men and women cheer.

From the other boat, Ivar watches her closely. She is a true leader, and one day, she will be his.

With anticipation, Liv waits for her cue. It is a grandiose plan; she has to admit. The first troops of the great army get ready and line up. Then it's their turn. She stands up and leads her Ravenblade up the hill as well.

The shieldmaiden lines up not far from the sons of Ragnar and grins. She loves fighting and slaughter. She turns her sword once in her hand and draws the shield closer as Ivar stops beside her in his chariot.

He looks at her briefly but then directs his gaze forward. And then Björn gives the signal. Together they run off into battle.

After the battle, Liv climbs onto the chariot with Ivar. Behind him, they have tied King Aelle, and he is now being pulled through the mud by Ivar. Liv smiles triumphantly at Ivar and then looks ahead again.

As Ivar comes to a stop, the other sons of Ragnar lift Aelle out of the mud. Ivar also turns on his buck and watches while Liv jumps from the chariot. The Boneless One watches her movements closely.

She seems to be examining where they are when Björn asks Aelle about the location of Ragnar's death. The anxious king looks at a place where Liv is already standing, and she then points to the ground with a nod. She steps on the floor with her foot and notices wood under her feet. She pushes the leaves back and forth and then looks at the king.

"Is this the place?" she asks in English. Liv has learned many different languages on her travels. The king looks at her and then nods hesitantly. "This is it," she says to Björn, and he asks his men to open the hatch.

Together they look inside. Ivar has now joined them as well.

"This is the place where our father was killed," he says, looking at his brothers.

The brothers exchange a look, and then Aelle looks at Björn. "How much gold and silver do you want to spare my life?" he asks tremblingly. "Name a price! Anything, anything you want!"

Liv laughs out loud. She bites her lip and waits anxiously for her big brother's answer. But then Ivar interferes.

"You are mistaken! Our father was worth much more than gold and silver." Then he looks to the king. "That is not the price you must pay."

The king knows fully that he is done for and begins to weep. Liv, meanwhile, looks at Ivar, who returns her gaze. Again, a nasty smile creeps onto her lips.

Then Floki grabs the king by the collar and forces him to his feet.

"I was told that your god was a builder. And you don't believe it, but so am I!"

A little later, Floki nails the king by the hands to posts so that Björn has a clear path to his back. Liv knows precisely what is coming now. She stands in front of the king and looks at him disparagingly.

Then Björn tears the king's tunic off and cuts his back open. He cries out in pain, and Liv looks briefly at her brother. When he looks at her, she raises an eyebrow, then turns around and sits down on a tree stump.

Liv watches tensely, and suddenly she notices how Ivar is next to her and creeps closer and closer to the king. Blood splatters around with every blow of Björn's axe, but Liv doesn't care. She is covered in blood anyway. She sees the fascination in Ivar's gaze and watches him momentarily.

With each successive blow, the life drains more from Aelle until the king is dead.

"I didn't think he'd last this long," Liv whispers to Ivar as she leans down to him.

Ivar looks at her briefly, and enthusiasm is reflected in his eyes. He is probably more like Liv than she thought.

The following day, the lifeless body with its open back hangs over their heads, finally wiping the blood from its face with a scrap of cloth. Ivar sits with Floki on his back, and they all look at the pathetic king.

"Come on... Another king is waiting for us," Björn says and trudges off.

Liv looks at Sven, who is eyeing her critically. She walks towards him.

"If you have something to say, say it," she demands.

The big man looks at her momentarily but then shakes his head.

"Thought so," she says, then follows her brother.

It's beginning to get on her nerves that Sven always looks at her with that reproving look.

#Vikings #Vikings Fanfic #Ivar x OC #Ivar x Reader #Ivar the Boneless x OC #Ivar the Boneless x Reader #Ivar Lothbrok x OC #Vikings Fandom #Ivar the Boneless #Ivar Lothbrok #Part 2 #Ivar Fanfic #Ivar the Boneless fanfic

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levithestripper · 2 years ago

Text

Ruin Me

summary: after a drunken conversation with rollo one night during a feast, athelstan suggests to ragnar that they try something new in the bedroom.

warnings: fluff, smut, porn with some plot, corruption kink, scent kink, kink negotiation, bondage, praise kink, dirty talk, hair pulling, oral sex [m! reciving], multiple orgasms, established safeword, aftercare.

length: 4.1k || read on ao3

notes: last work of 2022!!! athelnar has been eating away at my braincells since october so this was the only logical solution. this is also day 15 of by kinktober series that's slowly but surely being finished :)

“Ragnar?” Athelstan asks hesitantly from across the room. The longhouse was empty save for them, leaving them in a peaceful silence together. The former monk was attempting to fold laundry but failing miserably, too distracted by the shirtless Vikingr across from him.

Ragnar didn’t turn to look at him, occupied with washing the remainder of their dirty clothes. “Hm?”

“You’re not busy tonight, right?” Nervousness was evident in his voice, catching Ragnar off guard and prompting him to turn to face him.

“What’s wrong?” he questions, moving to invade Athelstan’s personal space like always. His blue eyes search every corner of his face, looking for any sign of what could be troubling him. “What’s bothering you?”

Athelstan took Ragnar’s hands in his own, drawing comfort from the proximity. “Nothing is wrong, my love. I want to ask you something, is all.” His words match his body language, shoulders relaxed, and eyebrows unfurrowed.

An uncharacteristically sweet smile spreads across Ragnar’s lips. “Then ask.” He held the monk’s gaze, silently drinking in the man’s beauty. Even after all this time, Ragnar still has moments where he’s utterly mesmerized by his lover’s magnificence. How could the Gods deem him worthy enough of a man like him?

Ragnar’s hypnotized-like gaze told him everything he needed to know. His face was one of infatuation and love; it was a look he wore often. “Tonight, when we’re in bed,” he pauses, “I want to try something new with you.” A blush rushes over Athelstan’s face, pulling a giggle from the other man.

“Something new?” he inquires coyly.

“It’s something I heard about from Rollo.”

Hearing his brother’s name confuses him. Why would Athelstan want to do anything Rollo did? he wonders. “Rollo?”

“He was drunk one night during a feast in the longhouse,” he clarifies, relieving Ragnar of his worried confusion. “Remember last week when he invited me to sit with him?” Ragnar nods. “He told me about a woman he, uh—saw—recently. What he did to her, and how much she liked it.” The red in his cheeks deepened. “Couldn’t get it out of my head. Pictured you doing those things,” Athelstan cut himself off, embarrassment rendering him unable to speak.

Ragnar cups the side of Athelstan’s face, stroking his cheekbone. “Use your words, love,” he coos, smiling as the man’s blush worsened. A teasing look forms in the Vikingr’s gaze, “Tell me what you want.”

He leans into his lover’s hand, knees going weak. “Please kiss me,” he asks, voice almost at a whimper. Athelstan’s head felt like it was up in the clouds, far away from Kattegat, Ragnar being the only thing tethering him to the ground. “Need you to kiss me, Ragnar.” They waste no time, lips clashing together with a passion that could rival Thor. Ragnar’s hand moves to the back of Athelstan’s head, gripping the long brown hair at the back of his neck. His head tilts to one side, giving the dirty blond plenty of room to kiss up his sensitive neck.

Ragnar nips at the column of his throat, leaving pretty red marks across his skin. Bruises bloom across his neck, publicly displaying who he belongs to. Ath’s hands grip the back of Ragnar’s undershirt, pulling him impossibly closer to his chest. “Fuck, c’mon!” he whines, tugging at his clothes.

He pulls away from his neck, a smirk plastered across his face. “You want more?” Athelstan nodded. “I can’t give it to you if you don’t tell me what it is you want, my love.” Ragnar’s hand returned to Athelstan’s cheek. “Tell me what got you so embarrassed, hm?”

Athelstan whines, making Ragnar giggle. “I want—” he stutters, “I want you to tie me up.” Heat radiated from his face. “The way Rollo talked about how much the woman liked it made me feel the same way you make me feel.”

The Vikingr’s smirk widened, his other hand squeezing his hip. “Mmm, so you’re saying I make you feel good?”

“Oh my God, Ragnar, shut up,” Ath groans, burying his face in the crook of Ragnar’s neck. Ragnar giggles again at his reaction, the sound reverberating through Athelstan’s chest.

Ragnar ignores him, instead pinching his round ass, loving the cute squeak Ath makes. “You’re sure you want this, love?” His question causes a shift in the atmosphere around them from playful to mature. Sensing this, Athelstan leaves the safety of Ragnar’s shoulder to look at him.

He nods, “I’m sure.” His arms snake around his lover’s neck, his thin fingers running over the short, close-cropped hair on the top of Ragnar’s head. “You know I trust you, darling,” Ath said with a smile, leaning in for another kiss, which Ragnar eagerly accepted. This kiss was slower than the last, more romantic, more intimate. Athelstan tilts his head to the side again, further deepening the slow-paced kiss. Taking advantage of this, Ragnar slips his tongue between Ath’s lips and into his mouth, drawing a moan from them both. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he moans against Ragnar’s mouth, chest heaving from lack of air.

Both of the Vikingr’s hands cup Athelstan’s face now, holding the man where he wanted him. “You taste so fucking good, my love,” Ragnar growls, pushing him back towards their bed. The half-finished chores were left abandoned in the middle of the hall, destined to be finished by whoever stumbled upon them next. The backs of Athelstan’s knees hit the bedframe, stopping him in his tracks. Ragnar pushes him onto the thick layer of furs, wasting no time crawling over his lithe body, effectively caging him in. They lock eyes for a moment, and breathy laughter fills the room, engulfing their surroundings with the sound of their love.

“I love you,” Ragnar whispers in his ear.

He smiles, “I love you more, honey.”

Ragnar smirks, taking it as a challenge, “Doubtful.”

“Oh yeah?” Ath teases, running a hand down Ragnar’s bare chest.

He didn’t answer, responding with wet kisses to Athelstan’s neck, drawing a groan out of him. His calloused hands pin Ath’s smaller ones above their head, leaving them vulnerable to anything Ragnar had planned. Ragnar looped a strip of cloth around Athelstan’s wrists, tying it loose enough for him to break out of if needed. He strips them of the rest of their clothing, giggling at the shiver that runs up Ath’s supple frame.

Unlike the Vikingr, Athelstan was soft and delicate, something to be gentle when handling. With a striking lack of scars and tattoos, he looks deliciously innocent compared to the dozens of scars littered across Ragnar’s torso and shoulders. It didn’t matter how often he had Athelstan underneath him; the sight never failed to make him stiffen in his pants. The vile desire to defile a once innocent Christian monk, to make him cry out in pleasure for the so-called “godless” Pagan who raided his monastery, coursed through Ragnar’s veins years after they made their relationship official. His hands roam across Athelstan’s abdomen, thumbs rubbing circles against the juts of his hip bones that stick out on either side of his pelvis.

“You remember what you’re supposed to say if it’s too much?” he asks, thumbs now pressing against where his v-lines would be, stopping just above the tip of Ath’s cock.

Gnawing on his thick bottom lip, Athelstan nodded, failing to stay quiet as soft groans escaped him. “Mhmm, I remember.” He needily presses his hips into Ragnar’s palm, silently asking for more. He tugs on his restraints, testing their give. A satisfied shudder rushed up Ath’s spine. Restrained and entirely at the mercy of his lover’s will, the reality of his situation settled in, causing his cock to throb pathetically. “Red for stop, yellow for hold on, and green for keep going.”

Ragnar smiles, placing a chaste kiss on Ath’s lips, “Good boy. Can I tighten the cloth?”

He shudders again at the praise, even though he expected it. “Please, tighten them.” The cloth wrapped around his wrists grew tighter, now pressing his palms together. Ragnar secures his bound hands to the headboard, keeping him from wiggling away.

“There we go,” Ragnar hums, sitting on the backs of his calves. He runs his hands down the expanse of Athelstan’s body, unabashedly feeling him up. He could feel the thick cords of newly gained muscle underneath the skin of his biceps, his chest, and even his thighs. A smirk reappeared on his lips, partnered with a devious twinkle in his icy blue eyes. “You’re so pretty, Athelstan. Almost like a woman,” he teases, his smirk growing as Ath’s blush reappears. “Prettier than a woman, actually.”

Athelstan’s attempt at laughing at Ragnar’s quip failed, an almost strangled-sounding moan coming out instead. “Ragnar, please,” he begs.

“Oh, please, what, my love?” He hums, thumbs still drawing circles into the monk’s skin. “You know we use our words here. You’re very good at that, aren’t you?”

His words darken the already deep blush painted across his face. Tugging at his binds, Ath whines, “Darling, Ragnar, please, just touch me! You’ve done nothing but tease me this entire time.” Ath pouts up at him, hoping it would help his chances of convincing him.

Looking down, Ragnar traces the outline of Athelstan’s cock, giggling every time it throbs or twitches. “But I am touching you, baby. Is this not what you wanted?” His response was a quick ‘no,’ the man’s head shaking back and forth. “No? Then how do you want me to touch you?”

“I want you to fuck me, Ragnar; want you to fuck me like you hate me.”

Taken aback, his fingers grab onto Ath’s hips with an intensity guaranteed to leave bruises. Pulling his hips flush with his, he whispers, “Since when did my little monk gain such sinful desires, hm?” To further prove his point, Ragnar grinds against him, pulling the filthiest moan from his lover. Athelstan reciprocated the action, rolling his hips in a circle, slotting Ragnar’s cock between his cheeks perfectly.

“Ever since you placed those desires in me, my love. Whispering your sinful fantasies in my ear, rousing cravings for things I’ve only ever heard about in rumors.” Athelstan’s depravedness shot electricity through Ragnar’s body like never before. “You’ve ruined me, Ragnar; defiled me for anyone else.”

He groans deeply in Ath’s ear, caging him underneath his massive frame. “I’ve ruined you, little monk? Torn you away from your Christian God and down a path of heathenry?” Ragnar sucks a dark purple hickey into the crook of Ath’s neck, chuckling when he moans. Spurred on by his reactions, he littered more along Athelstan’s throat, decorating his unmarred skin with blatant claims. “What would your monastery friends say if they saw you now?”

Precum pooled in his belly button, paired with a loud moan tumbling from his mouth. “Fuck, Ragnar.” He tugs on the restraints with a whine. “Please, c’mon! I need you.”

“You need me, hm?” Ragnar teases, slowly pumping his fist around Ath’s shaft. Precum stuck to his palm, getting between his fingers. “Baby, you’re dripping for me. I haven’t even touched you yet.” He mouths at his shoulder, kissing him softly. Athelstan squirms underneath him, hips writhing from the overwhelming sensation of Ragnar’s touch. Sinewy muscles of Ath’s biceps flex with his movements, spurring Ragnar on further. He doesn’t allow him to respond, whispering in his ear, “You need me to ruin you, don’t you?” He nibbles the shell of Ath’s ear before licking it, relishing in the moan he gifted him.

His thin fingers grasp his bonds, extenuating the lean build he’s developed even further than before. “I do, I do,” he groans, head tilting back into his pillow. “I want you to ruin me, my love!” He shivers when Ragnar runs his thumb over the head of his cock, bringing a snarky grin to the Vikingr’s face. “Love it when you take me apart.” Sweat glistens on both their faces, the summer heat sparing no one.

Ragnar leans to kiss him, quickly slipping his tongue into his hot mouth. The kiss was a mess of tongue and teeth, spit sliding down Ath’s cheek. It doesn’t last very long, as Ragnar is eager to give him what they both desperately desire. He kissed down Athelstan’s body, sucking small hickeys into his skin as he went. “So good for me, baby. Want me to suck you off?”

The thought of having Ragnar’s mouth wrapped around his dick made him moan unabashedly, giving Ragnar his answer. His calloused hands grip Athelstan’s thick thighs, keeping him still and pliant. “Please, fuck, I want your mouth,” he begs, wriggling his hips toward his face.

“Shhh, shhh, baby,” he coos, stroking his thighs soothingly, “You’ll get what you want, don’t fret.” Ragnar presses his face against Athelstan’s pelvis, breathing his scent in deeply. Usually, Athelstan kept his pubes neatly trimmed for his personal comfort and Ragnar’s sake. But it had been a while since the last time he groomed, leaving it a thick, curly mess, something Ragnar was over the moon about. “Fuuck,” he groans, eyes rolling back slightly. “Smell fucking delicious, baby.”

Gazing down at his boyfriend, Athelstan watches as Ragnar grinds his hips against their bed. Ragnar’s spine was slick with sweat, skin shining in the light filtering through the windows. His muscles ripple underneath his skin, causing a pang of desire to shoot through Ath’s limbs. “My scent’s getting you off?” Ragnar nods in response, too busy mouthing at the base of his cock to form words. His tongue laves at the pale skin found there before slowly licking up the veiny shaft. Pink, spit-shiny lips place small kisses against the tip, relieving Ath of the precum building up there.

Ragnar brought him into his mouth, sinking down to the base in one go. A guttural moan left Athelstan’s lips, hands desperate for purchase against the restraints. The head of his cock bullies the back of Ragnar’s throat, making him choke each time. It was a sick sound of spit and half-retching, but it stirred something primal inside Athelstan, tightening the ball inside him with every thrust he gave. Ragnar’s hands held firm on his abdomen, doing his best to keep his lover still. Between his choking, Ragnar manages to let out a few moans, getting off on pleasuring his boyfriend.

Pleasure was building inside him faster than he expected, his orgasm threatening to overtake him. “Ragnar, Ragnar—fuck—I’m gonna cum!” he stutters, legs thrashing underneath Ragnar’s grip. “Fuck, your mouth!” Athelstan’s eyes roll back into his skull as his orgasm washes over him, his entire body shaking with the force of it. Hot cum filled Ragnar’s mouth, which he was quick to swallow in its entirety. Sucking the last bits of his orgasm from him, Ath whimpers at the aftershocks, the small movements beginning to overstimulate him. His chest heaves from exertion, sweat running down his frame and leaving a damp spot on the sheets.

Pulling back, Ragnar scarfed down much-needed air, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Leaning forwards, he untied his wrists, releasing his boyfriend from his pleasurable confines. Athelstan wraps his tired arms around Ragnar’s broad shoulders, yanking him down to lie on top of him. “I think you sucked my soul out through my dick.”

“You loved it,” he giggles, his smirk turning to a cheeky smile. Ragnar brushes the hair out of Ath’s face, drowning in his pretty green eyes. “You feeling alright, my love?”

Ath nods, returning Ragnar’s gaze with an equally as affectionate one. He intertwines their fingers together, reveling in the grounding presence the Vikingr provided him. “I’m alright. Better than alright,” he hums. “You?”

“Never better,” Ragnar responds, giggling again. He invades Ath’s personal space as much as possible, making the other man laugh too. “You know, I still haven’t gotten off yet, baby.”

He raises an eyebrow with a smirk, “Oh yeah?”

Ragnar kisses him again, passion evident throughout. “You wanna keep going? I haven’t fully ruined you yet, have I?” He kisses his cheek, then his hairline.

“Of course, I’d like to continue; you can’t expect me to be satisfied that quickly, can you?” Athelstan grins, returning the kiss eagerly.

Ragnar moves to sit between Ath’s legs, carefully placing them on his shoulders, effectively folding the man in half. Fishing a jar of oil-like liquid out from under the bed, he excessively coats three fingers, wiping the access off on Ath’s inner thigh. “Ready?”

Athelstan nods, relaxing in preparation for the welcomed intrusion. Slowly, Ragnar’s forefinger works its way inside him, greeted with a quiet moan. Before long, one finger became two, two became three, and the soft moan became loud. The slick sounds of Ragnar’s fingers thrusting in and out of Athelstan’s sloppy entrance echoed throughout their bedroom. Athelstan covers his face with his forearms, hiding his pleasured expression from his lover.

“Don’t hide from me, baby.” Ragnar pulls his arms away from his face, returning them to the mattress. “Keep your hands like that, okay?”

He nods, whimpers tumbling from him. “Fuuck, fuck, Ragnar, baby—!” Ath squirms, trying and failing to get away from the overwhelming pleasure. “Please, fuck me,” he begs, “I’m loose enough; I’m ready, Ragnar, please!”

He kisses him once more before slipping his fingers out of his lover. Slicking his cock with another palmful of lube, he presses the tip against his entrance. “You’re sure you’re ready, my love?”

“Fuck, I’m more than ready,” Athelstan begs, tightly holding Ragnar’s free hand.

Ragnar gives his hand a squeeze as he slowly pushes his way inside. “Fuck,” he drawls, face scrunched up in ecstasy. “You’re still so tight.” Athelstan gasps and babbles senselessly, thrusting back on Ragnar’s cock. Giving him time to adjust, he gradually slides in until his hips are flush against Ath’s ass.

Athelstan’s expression mirrored Ragnar’s, eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed together. Tiny, high-pitched whimpers escaped him, hands running up Ragnar’s biceps for purchase. “You’re s’fucking big, Ragnar, darling,” he groans, nails digging into his skin.

He leans down further, folding Athelstan in half once more. “Must feel so full, honey,” he teases, biting his earlobe. Ragnar cards his fingers through his sweaty hair, pushing it off his forehead. His thrusts are quick and shallow, pulling out barely halfway before slamming inside again. “Nothing compares to the real thing, huh? This is just what you needed, isn’t it, sweetheart?” The sounds of Ragnar’s thighs smacking against Athelstan’s echos throughout their room, only darkening the blush that had spread to cover the monk’s chest.

“Mm—mhmm!” Ath nods, eyes still closed, too overwhelmed to open them.

Noticing this, Ragnar smirks, a devious idea forming. Adjusting his thrusts to hit Athelstan’s sweet spot, the bedframe rattling from the sheer power of it. With each slam to that bundle of nerves, Ath’s eyes shot open, and a loud moan tumbled from his lips. “Oh fuck, Ragnar! Oh my God, holy shit, right there, please!” Blunt nails leave long, red welts down the Vikingr’s muscled back, desperately grabbing for anything to ground him to reality. The tendons in the back of Ath’s thighs strained from the stretch, though it only added to his arousal.

“Aww, right there?” he mocks, changing the direction of his thrusts back to how they were before, much to Athelstan’s displeasure. “Is this where you want it, baby?”

He leaves fresh lines down his back, turning Ragnar’s back into a scratching post. “No, no, no!” Ath’s voice was utterly sinful, full of lust and desperation. “Where you were before!”

“Here?” he asks, hitting everywhere but the spot he wanted. He sucks another bruise into his neck, which is now more purple than its usual porcelain complexion.

Ath shook his head no, unable to form words as he was on the brink of sobbing. Delicate tears pool in his eyes, extenuating the soft, innocent aura that typically encapsulated him. Unable to deprive him any longer, Ragnar caves, giving Ath what he wants, hitting his sweet spot once more. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it, sweetheart?”

Athelstan felt like his entire body was melting into goo, his limbs filling with static and joints melting to nothing. “Yes, yes, s’good, s’fuckin’ good, baby—” he stutters, words slurring together as pleasure overtook him. His eyes roll back from a rather intense thrust, shudders wracking his body. “You’re so—ohmygod—you’re so deep!”

Ragnar kept the pace, keeping Athelstan teetering between orgasm and never-ending pleasure. “Aww, you hearing yourself? You’re already ruined for me, and I didn’t even have to do much.” Lube and sweat dribble down Athelstan’s taint, pooling against the sheets. “It wasn’t even difficult to ruin you like you asked,” Ragnar mocks, “Turns out, you were already a slut for me.” His balls slap against Ath’s ass, mixing well with the cacophony of noise already surrounding them.

“Yes, yes, ‘m yours, all yours,” he babbles, hands moving from Ragnar’s back to and up to his hair, tugging on the damp, blond locks. Athelstan stumbles over his words, unable to get a sentence out smoothly. “All fuckin’ yours, m��love.” Ragnar thrusts deeper than before, hitting his lover’s sweet spot with a punishing amount of force. A shriek escaped Ath as intense waves of unadulterated ecstasy washed over him, hips rolling into Ragnar’s thrusts. The hands in Ragnar’s hair grip tight, drawing pretty noises from him too. “G’nna cum—gonna cum! M’gonna cum, Ragnar, m’gonna cum! Please, fuck, please let me cum!” Ath’s voice cracks halfway through his plea.

His smirk widens across his face, pleased at the show Ath is putting on for him. “You want to cum, is that it?” He litters kisses along Ath’s hairline. “I don’t know,” he hesitates, quickening the speed of his thrusts. “Do you think you deserve it, my love? Have you earned it?” Precum oozes from the head of his cock, coating Ath’s walls with each thrust he gives.

Athelstan gazes at him with big, tearful eyes; his pupils are blown black, with barely a ring of green left to circle them. “Please, Ragnar!” he pleads, tears threatening to spill down his pinkened cheeks. “Feel like m’gonna explode; I can’t take it any longer!” His voice was the essence of depravity, only aiding in his efforts.

Combined with his own impending orgasm and Athelstan’s pleading, Ragnar granted him permission to cum, which he did gladly. Tightening around Ragnar, Athelstan came with a shout, spunk landing sporadically across both of their chests and stomachs. His cock twitches and throbs with each wave of his orgasm, echoing the spasms running through the rest of Ath’s body.

It wasn’t long after that Ragnar came too, spurred on by his lover’s climax. Ragnar finishes inside him, shooting ropes of cum as deep as he can get them. He’s sure there’ll be handprint-shaped bruises left on Athelstan’s hips later from the death grip he has on them. Feeling Ragnar cum inside pushes Ath over the edge again, sending him into another body-numbing orgasm. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, eyes completely rolled back into his skull. Ath’s orgasm seemed to last forever, so by the time he could open his eyes again, Ragnar was already beginning to clean them up.

Ragnar recovers quickly after such an intense orgasm, swiftly attending to his lover, who was threatening to black out on him. Fetching the cup of water from the nightstand, he takes a swig before coaxing Athelstan to do the same, holding his head up so he won’t choke. “You were so good for me, my love,” he coos. Slowly pulling out of him with a groan, Ragnar sits Ath up against the headboard, wiping him clean of sweat and drying cum. “So perfect like always.” Exiling the dirtied sheets to the floor, Ragnar crawls under the covers, snuggling up next to him. “How do you feel, sweetheart?”

Athelstan curls up under Ragnar’s arm, sleep quickly taking hold. He hums, “Good, fantastic. Perfect. You?”

“Same here. Love it when you’re good for me,” Ragnar says, purely to hear the giggle Ath responded with. The sound floods his chest with an affection rivaled by no other in Midguard. He brings up an earlier conversation with a smirk. “I think I proved that I love you more, by the way.”

Too tired to argue, Ath agrees with a yawn. “Fine, fine, you win. I get to win next time, though.” Ath’s yawning incites Ragnar to do the same.

“Yeah, yeah, sure you will,” he chuckles, kissing the top of his head. Athelstan’s exhaustion soon infected Ragnar, the larger man yawning again. They scramble down the bed to lay comfortably, pulling the blankets and soft furs over them. Athelstan is tucked neatly underneath Ragnar’s arm, head using the Vikingr’s chest as a pillow. They fall asleep with the setting sun, the humid summer heat morphing into a warm evening, the perfect temperature for cuddling.

The light from the full moon replaced the sunlight, accompanied by every star in the galaxy. Without a cloud in the sky, the entirety of Kattegat was asleep alongside them, granting the couple a rest worthy of the Gods.

tagging: @slayhousehightower, @aemondtarqaryen, @procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics, @demon-of-the-ancient-world

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