Athelstan of Lindisfarne

Athelstan smiles and makes his way over to lean against the wall near them.

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Ragnar grins, takes a handful of foam, and daubs it on Athelstan's chest, just because he can and it's handy.

Then, he starts running his fingers gently through Sinric's hair, smoothing and stroking and loosening any tangles he may find, and softly rubbing his scalp.

It comes all back to him very easily.

He sometimes misses the times when Lagertha and he did these things together, when he washed his own clothes, or heated the bath water for the entire family.

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Sinric's eyes slip closed, enjoying the feeling so very much. He moans softly, involuntarily. Pleasure sometimes isn't sexual. It just is.

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Athelstan reaches to run his hand down Sinric's side, only touching, no pressure for anything.

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"May I have the soap for washing hair?" Ragnar asks, quietly, of Athelstan.

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Sinric reaches for Athelstan, eyes still closed and enjoying the feeling. Of touch and being touches. Or being without pressure or expectation.

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Athelstan takes his hand, fingers caressing his palm, and with the other hand passes the bottle to Ragnar.

"Best to keep your eyes closed", he says to Sinric. "You'll know how it can sting."

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Ragnar puts a bit of the stuff on his hand, and works up a lather.

"Sit up a little so I can soap your hair," he then says, lifting his arm and starting to rub the rich, creamy foam into Sinric's hair.

There are so simple ways of spoiling and pleasing somebody...

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He obeys as they instruct, trusting them perhaps more than he should and yet...

And yet he feels safer in their company than he can ever remember feeling, even with Constantine.

He tangles his fingers in Athelstan's, pulling him close.

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Athelstan leans over and kisses him briefly and gently, an indicator that they only plan to take care of him.

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Ragnar is gently working his fingers through Sinric's hair and scalp, holding him secure.

He looks at Athelstan with a small, loving smile, and blinks his eyes slowly once, like a cat, and hopes that Athelstan understands that Ragnar finds him quite marvellous, and loves him very much.-

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Sinric purrs a little, like a cat himself as Ragnar washes him. He pulls Athelstan against him, wanting to feel the warmth of both of them.

One hand drifts down Athelstan's flank, cupping the curve of his rear. He finds himself aching to touch them.

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"You can", Athelstan whispers in his ear. "When the soap's washed away and you can open your eyes, you can do whatever pleases you."

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"Lean back, so I can rinse out your hair," Ragnar says, moving his arm sideways again so Sinric's hair can easily float in the water.

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He trusts his weight utterly to Ragnar, smiling warmly at Athelstan's whisper. "And what can I do for you in return for this kindness, Earl Ragnar?"

{ooc: going to bed, I swear!}

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Athelstan waits for the answer, raising his eyebrows at Ragnar.

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"You don't need to do anything, Oriens," Ragnar says. "Just lean back and enjoy. I expect nothing, and will be happy to do anything you suggest because you want it. You have good ideas."

Something coils and wibbles deep in his belly at the very idea of Athelstan entering him. He doesn't quite know if it's a good or a bad wibble, but he will find out, one day, before death.

Also, this is Sinric -- without him, they wouldn't be here. Ragnar already owes the future version of this sweet creature in his arms a great debt, for pointing him towards one of the two great loves of his life.

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Sinric shakes his head and laughs, water beading down his shoulders and breasts.

He reaches for Athelstan, pulling him close so he is pressed between the northmen. "What I want is not to wake from this dream, to hold onto it for as long as I can." The soap and bubbles makes his skin slick and he rubs between them hotly.

He wants them inside him, he wants to feel them. For fear this is some fleeting moment is no more substantial that the skin of the bubbles around them. Too beautiful, too unreal.

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Athelstan presses back against him.

"Then until you feel you must go back through your door, stay with us."

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Ragnar reaches out, pulling Athelstan close to kiss him deeply; with the other hand, he reaches around to stroke Sinric's breasts, inserting his hand between the two of them as to rub the nipple nearest to his reach.

"You are welcome with us," Ragnar says.

He must speak with Athelstan alone, and soon; but that will happen.

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Sinric moans, arching into the touch. His shapely buttocks rub against Ragnar's groin as nuzzles Athelstan's neck.

It's too much; their kindness, their welcome. He doesn't know how to deal with it so for now, he doesn't. Instead he focuses on them and on the simpler pleasures of the body.

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Athelstan runs his hands over Sinric's body, over every inch of skin he can reach.

He can see the confusion in Sinric's eyes, so stops talking.

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Ragnar opens his legs a little more to let Sinric get as close as he wants.

He feels his arousal rising again from the touch; his prick slips between Sinric's buttocks and thighs as it hardens, sliding all the way forwards, as there's nothing it would nudge against to stop it.

If this is what Sinric wants, he'll let him have it.

His other hand strokes Athelstan's shoulders, keeping Sinric between them embraced from both sides.

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