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No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it. - 1 Corinthians 10:13
*
Athelstan never took any particular pride in his chastity. When the temptation is small, where is the glory in resisting it? He heard his brothers speak of their weakness, confessing their shameful lusts, and he never truly understood it. There were no women in the monastery to tempt him, and certainly none of his brothers inflamed anything like lust in him.
His passion was for the scriptures alone.
Whenever he would find himself in a state unprovoked, usually upon awakening, he would simply ignore it, going about his duties until it went away.
It always did.
*
His new life is nothing like his old.
He has been able to find a rhythm in it, especially since Ragnar had charged him with the care of Bjorn and Gyda before he and Lagertha had sailed back across the sea. He'd bitten back a plea to be taken with them, to be returned to his homeland, knowing it was futile.
And now he finds, with a certain amount of discomfort, that there are things in his new life that he likes.
Bjorn still doesn't care much for him, eyeing him sullenly at every turn, although he has softened somewhat since Athelstan agreed to take him and Gyda to Kattegat. Gyda is shy around him, but she seems to like him. He enjoys caring for them, surprisingly, and for the animals on the Lothbrook land.
But he has another problem, now, one of even greater discomfort.
He can't stop remembering, every time he closes his eyes. He remembers them coming to him, their skin golden and sweat-tinged. He remembers their soft voices inviting him, Ragnar's lips curled in a smile as he asked who would know? Lagertha's strong, slender thighs, Ragnar's chest.
The images won't leave him alone. It's even harder at times like this, when he can hear them. They don't bother to quiet their voices for anyone’s benefit, and more than once Bjorn’s thrown his hands up in exasperation and stomped out of the house when they get going.
He’s even seen them a few times, too lost in his own thoughts to pick up on the signs, and it’s not as though they confine themselves to their sleeping quarters or to the darkness.
They are shameless.
He can hear them now; Lagertha is laughing breathlessly, and Ragnar is saying to something, his voice too low to pick out the words. The laughter and words quickly changes to soft moans and panting breaths and Athelstan squeezes his eyes shut, clutching his gospel tight. There’s a tiny, shameful part of him that wants to stay, wants to listen. He ignores it. He ignores the tight, urgent feeling in his gut. He opens his eyes and hurries outside.
He prays.
*
It's hard not to feel that his Lord has deserted him, left him here among these heathens with no discernible purpose.
Doubt begins to prickle at the corners of his mind.
*
They are especially loud tonight.
He knows why - returning from a successful battle always seems to quicken their lust - and he hates that he knows. Hates that he’s been here so long that this is routine to him now, that it no longer surprises or horrifies him.
And he can picture it so easily now. He knows them now. They've treated him with kindness, for the most part. Ragnar especially, in the beginning. It took Lagertha longer to soften towards him, but she seems to trust, even like, him now. He thinks he proved himself by caring for her children, although it was an easy task and one he enjoyed.
They haven't invited him to their bed again but sometimes Ragnar looks at him - a heavy, contemplative look, often when they’ve been drinking. Sometimes Lagertha comes, sits on her husband’s lap, and they talk softly, looking at him all the while, until he feels himself grow hot and looks away.
Athelstan isn't sure he could say no again.
They would be lovely together, breathtaking. They are, from the few times he has glimpsed them together. Athelstan has not known many women, and would not claim to be a good judge of their beauty, but Lagertha - Lagertha is as beautiful as she is terrifying. He doesn’t fear either of them now, not for himself, but it is impossible to see her with a shield in her hand and a sword in her hand and not feel a shiver of fear - and something else - run down his spine.
He can imagine them now, his mind conjuring images to go with the filthy sounds he can hear. Perhaps Lagertha is sitting astride Ragnar’s hips, smiling tauntingly down at him, hair falling down her back. His hands - Athelstan has watched his hands, too often for his own comfort - resting on her waist, urging her faster.
It’s no good now - he’s helplessly aroused, cock hard, skin hot. He can’t stop picturing them any more than he can stop listening - Lagetha’s legs around his waist, his hand on her breast, her tongue in his mouth. His pulse thunders at the thought, and he can’t help but slide his hand down, press his palm against his cock through the cloth of his tunic.
The relief is instant and he moans involuntarily, then quickly bites his lip, holding back the sound in shame.
He shouldn’t do it, he can’t do it. He has lost too much of himself already in this place. He will not lose this too.
Except... Surely it would be better to simply deal with the problem as quickly and perfunctorily as possible, to take no pleasure in it? Athelstan knows he’s rationalising, that the thought is desperate and dangerous. But he won’t be able to sleep tonight, these thoughts will chase each other around and around his head until he’s half-mad.
He is trying to absolve himself of that which cannot be justified.
He doesn’t care.
He will pray, afterwards, he will ask for forgiveness, and it will be granted to him in compensation for all he has suffered.
This is entirely new to him - he was raised in the monastery from a young age, always knowing what was right and what was wrong. The sin of Onan, the monks called it.
He slides his hand under his tunic, curling his hand around his hard cock. He gasps at the touch, squeezing himself, and he follows his instinct and starts to move his hand, lips pressed hard together to hold back the sounds he knows would otherwise escape.
He tries to keep his mind blank, to focus on the sensation of his own hand and nothing else, but he can’t do it. He can’t stop seeing them together. He can’t stop imagining Lagertha’s neck straining as Ragnar fucks her, imagining her fingers digging into his shoulders as she rides him. He squeezes himself harder and jerks his fist faster, and it’s almost painful now, the relief less potent than the frustration and something else, tight and hot in chest.
It steals into his mind then, the idea of them touching him. What would have happened if he’d said yes? If he’d given in rather than clutching his gospel, if he’d let Ragnar pull him up, take him to their bed. If he’d reached out, as he had wanted to beneath the fear and confusion, and run his fingers along Lagertha’s smooth skin.
He’s breathing heavily now, panting, and his body is flushed and hot. He is angry; with himself, with God, with these heathens who have dragged him into sin. The confusion, frustration, and arousal all cloud his mind until he’s lost in it, stroking his cock hard, almost ready to beg for release.
He is so lost in it that it takes him a long moment to realise the sounds have stopped.
Athelstan’s eyes fly open, his hand stills.
Ragnar is watching him with what Athelstan thinks is amusement. Lagertha watches, too, standing behind her husband, her arms around his waist. They are both half-dressed at best - Ragnar in just his woolen trousers, nearly falling off his hips, and Lagertha with a blanket wrapped around her, tucked under her arms. It reminds him forcefully of their first proposition.
Athelstan scrambles back, pulling his blankets up around his waist, his back against the wall.
“I - I was - ” is all he can stutter out, furious at his own ineloquence. Words have never deserted him like this. He should not be embarrassed before them, this is their fault. He should be angry.
“I think we know what you were doing, priest,” Lagertha says. She scrapes her nails across Ragnar’s stomach and then leans up to bite his earlobe. “You should show him how to do it, husband,” she says, supposedly in his ear, but obviously meant for Athelstan to hear.
Ragnar smiles, and then captures Lagertha’s hand on his chest and pulls her into a kiss. Athelstan first instinct is to look away, but he doesn’t. He watches them kiss slowly, deeply, one of Ragnar’s hands holding her neck, tilting her head back. Her blanket slips, revealing the curve of her breast, and he doesn’t look away.
“Well, priest?” Ragnar says, his mouth still hovering close to Lagertha’s. He turns to look at Athelstan. “Would you like me to show you?”
He takes a step towards Athelstan, and then another, and then he lowers himself, crouching at Athelstan’s bedside. It’s not hard to understand why Ragnar is a leader of men, why he fills the Earl with such obvious anger and fear. Ragnar commands attention effortlessly. Athelstan can’t look away from him.
He should stop this, he should push Ragnar away and flee, never mind that this is his bed. He should say no, tell them to leave him be. He knows they won’t touch him without his permission.
“Yes,” he says.
Ragnar smiles. It’s not friendly, or soothing, like his smiles directed at Athelstan often are. The only word Athelstan can think of for it is wicked.
Athelstan doesn’t move, frozen against the wall, as Ragnar pushes his blanket down and tugs his tunic up.
“Off,” Ragnar says. Athelstan cringes at the idea of being naked, but he obeys, pulling his tunic over his head, tossing it to the floor beside his bed. Ragnar strokes his side, and instead of going for his cock, as Athelstan expected him, he trails a finger down his arm. Athelstan shivers.
Ragnar picks up his hand and guides it to Athelstan’s cock. He curls his hand around Athelstan’s, making a fist, and starts moving, working Athelstan’s hand so he’s stroking himself. It feels so different like this, with Ragnar directing his movement, with his chest pressed against Athelstan’s side, and he gasps.
“Take your pleasure in it,” Ragnar tells him. “There is no hurry. Let yourself feel it.”
Athelstan bites his lip and Ragnar speeds up their hands a fraction, his grip still quite loose. It’s good, but not nearly enough.
“Close your eyes,” Ragnar says. He’s murmuring in Athelstan’s ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “Picture what you like, who you desire. Imagine their hand on you, not your own.”
Athelstan turns his head and stares at him. The instruction makes no sense, he can’t possibly close his eyes, he can’t look away from this, not when it is Ragnar that he desires so shamefully.
“Interesting,” Ragnar says, with a huff of laughter.
Before Athelstan can disclaim uselessly, Ragnar changes his motion, starts twisting their wrists on the upstroke, and the thought flies out of his mind. His head tips back, knocking against the wall. It feels good, like nothing he has ever felt before.
“I think he likes it.” He’d almost forgotten Lagertha, but now she’s kneeling on his other side, touching his chest. Her hands are calloused, like Ragnar’s, as she runs her hands over him. She scrapes her thumbnail over his nipple and he hisses, shocked at how good it feels.
“Can you do it on your own now?” Ragnar asks, and Athelstan blinks at him.
“I - ” If he says yes, will they leave him, take themselves back to their bed? He can’t deny that he doesn’t want that. He nods anyway, his head swimming too much to make deception possible.
Ragnar takes his hand away and moves back a little, sitting turned so he’s facing Athelstan. He doesn’t leave, though, and after a moment’s hesitation Athelstan starts to stroke himself again, as Ragnar showed him, and even without Ragnar’s hand on his it feels so much better than it did when he was alone.
Ragnar, eyes still fixed on him, reaches across him to Lagertha, and tugs on her blanket until it slips down, and she pushes it off all the way. Athelstan stares at her.
She’s breathtaking like this, and he’s almost afraid to look at her, until she takes his left hand, holding it up until it hovers a breath away from her skin.
“Do you want to touch me?” she asks, and Athelstan can’t stop his eyes from turning to Ragnar. He wants, he wants badly. Ragnar doesn’t respond, doesn’t nod or shake his head, he just watches them, his startling eyes dark, and Athelstan drags his gaze back to Lagertha.
She looks amused at his indecision, and it makes him feel foolish. He closes the gap between them, resting his hand lightly on her side. Her skin is warm, softer than he’d have thought. His hand slows on his cock, distracted by her, wanting to touch her almost more than he wants to touch himself. He slides his thumb along the crease of her breast.
Lagertha laughs, whether at his trepidation or from good spirits he can’t tell, and guides his hand to her breast properly. He cups her gently, unsure why it feels so good for him, and tries to imitate what she did, flicking his thumb across her nipple. She makes a soft sound at that, arching her back and pushing into his hand.
“He has soft hands,” she says to Ragnar, looking sidelong at his. Her fingers are still tight around Athelstan’s wrist, and he slides his thumb across her nipple again. “Softer than yours.”
“We cannot all be scholars and priests,” he replies, amusement clear, and then he pushes Athelstan’s right hand off his cock where it was still moving slowly and takes him in hand himself. His hands are so much bigger than Athelstan’s own, so much rougher, and Athelstan lets out a sharp breath and jerks his hips forward.
Ragnar chuckles and starts to stroke, quickly now. Athelstan can feel himself hurtling towards something now, can feel the urgency of it low in his gut. His breath quickens, and he’s panting so fast he feels almost dizzy. Lagertha leans over him, kissing his neck, softly at first, then opening her mouth, sucking and biting gently, her breasts pressed against his chest and side. The combined sensations are almost overhwleming.
Athelstan hardly knows what he’s doing, one arm now curved around Lagertha’s back, the other clutching Ragnar’s shoulder as he jerks his cock, his thumb flicking across the head. It only takes another few strokes for Ragnar to coax him to climax, his back arching, and he knows he’s crying out but he can’t hold it back, a jumbled, wordless sound.
Ragnar’s hand slows, but it doesn’t stop, caressing him through it until Athelstan collapses back against the bed, his muscles burning from the sudden release of tension. Eventually, he pushes Ragnar’s hand away, painfully sensitive now, and focuses on regaining his breath.
If he focuses on his breathing, he doesn’t have to think about what he’s done.
They don’t stop touching him, though. He thought, perhaps, once it was over that they’d leave him to his shame. But Lagertha is still touching his chest and arms, almost soothingly, and one of Ragnar’s hands rests on his hip, his thumb rubbing gently at the crease of his thigh.
Ragnar says something to Lagertha, low enough that in his still-hazy state Athelstan can’t quite make it out, but she nods, leaning across to kiss him. It’s different to their kiss from before, soft and brief, and Athelstan watches them in bemusement.
“Come,” Ragnar says when Lagertha pulls back. He’s looking at her, but his hand is closing around Athelstan’s wrist, tugging him upright. Athelstan goes willingly, too tired and spent to dream of protesting.
He’s naked, but he is not ashamed. He thinks he should be, but he can’t muster it where it would have come naturally before. Lagertha has his other hand in hers, and she is naked too, and all he feels when he looks at her is a kind of awe.
They take him to their bed, pushing and prodding until he is lying between them. It’s a close fit, and he ends up with Lagertha’s leg slung over his own, her face tucked along his shoulder, and Ragnar’s palm resting on his chest.
“Thank you,” he says softly, when he thinks, hopes maybe, that they are both asleep. He feels foolish saying it, but he can’t find the words to express any of the confusion and conflict in his mind and soul, and that is the only thing that tumbles out.
Ragnar’s fingers brush his side, and Lagertha presses her cheek into his arm, but Athelstan is grateful that they don’t say anything. The silence is not uncomfortable, and their breathing deepens and evens out. Sleep is tugging at him, and he’s glad of it. He wants to fall into dreamless unconsciousness where the weight of his sin can be forgotten.
Worse, though, than his sin (he knows that is what it is, he hasn’t the slightest doubt as to that), is that he does not, cannot, regret it.
Athelstan sleeps.