Sinric the Wanderer

"Sometimes", Athelstan murmurs, dipping his finger in the paste, "I'm led to believe these sweet foods can go well with other things."

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Sinric smiles as he catches on, "Indeed. A Frankish trader once showed me a wonderful trick with honeyed cream."

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"Do tell," Ragnar says, grinning.

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"Yes, do tell."

Athelstan licks the quince paste off his finger.

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Sinric takes the pot and dips his own fingertip. "I think I would rather show you."

He kneels over Athelstan and draws an abstract shape over the centre of his chest with the sticky jam before leaning in to lick it off with slow and playful laps.

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Ragnar lies down beside Athelstan again, holding the pot of quince jam ready for Sinric, cheerfully observing.

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Athelstan murmurs his enjoyment, hands running gently over Sinric's back.

"You must let me return the favour, but you shall choose the place."

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Sinric nods his gratitude and moves into his back, touching his belly at the base of his ribcage. A safe area, unmolested.

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Ragnar bends to kiss Athelstan and watches Sinric recover his poise at doing this.

The quince jam obviously helped.

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That was the idea.

Athelstan dips into the jam and draws loops on Sinric's chosen area, following them with his mouth.

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It's warm and fun and all together too lovely. He sighs and stokes his unsticky hand through Athelstan's hair. "The trader told me there were old magics that could be used. Symbols that would make a woman fall in love of conceive a child. I think he was talking nonsense but it was fun to find out."

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"If your magic can do that to us, you arer really very good at it," Ragnar teases, daubing jam on Athelstan's lips before kissing it off.

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Athelstan laughs against his lips.

"Well, we needed no spells for the first one."

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"I have no magic." Sinric smiles, drawing a spiral on Ragnar's thigh. "Just this." He chases it with his tongue.

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Ragnar gives a surprised little laugh at the touch, but doesn't pull away, even though he may be a little ticklish there.

Just a little, so the surprise touch is surprisingly pleasant.

"The second bit," he says, "would need magic, or maybe the ruthless touch of the god Loki."

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"And that's the last thing we want", Athelstan says lightly.

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"Who is Loki?" He asks, drawing a pattern of sun rays and Athelstan's shoulder to lick off before settling back between them. The panic has passes and he's more himself now.

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"The god of fire, cunning, magic, and being blamed for everything," Ragnar says.

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"The stories have him as a trickster", Athelstan continues, "and often malevolent."

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"How unpleasant." Sinric sighs, reaching for a strawberry from the fruit Ragnar had brought over. "Not at all the sort of God one would want to invoke in bed."

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"There was this one time when he turned himself into a mare and had himself mounted by a stallion, for one of his cunning plans," Ragnar says. "Later, he gave birth to an eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, the fastest of all horses in any of he worlds, which he gave to his good friend Odin as a gift. So Loki is associated with straying over the borders between male and female, and hence not quite such a terrible god to invoke in bed."

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"Like me?" Sinric asks softly, aware of how he stands on the line between the masculine and feminine.

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"Yes, somewhat," Ragnar says. "Among our gods, Loki would most likely be yours as Odin is mine; and that's not a bad thing at all."

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"You'd be far from alone claiming him as such", Athelstan agrees.

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