Vikings Drabbles

⤭ a throne for a queen

ragnar requests the presence of his queen. rated 18+ for smut.

TWO MEMBERS OF the vanguard open the doors to the mead hall when you approach. They both exchange wayward glances as you pass, letting the heavy wooden doors close. Ragnar sits at the far end of the Great Hall atop the raised dais on the carved throne of Kattegat. He's slouched over to the side in the chair, uncomfortable, with his legs splayed out and hand running over his face —the burden of power. His eyes flit up as you enter, so blue and bright they seem to glow in the dim light of the burning sconces and braziers. But his pensive expression turns to a frown as you draw closer.

"What is so important that you interrupted my time with the children?" You ask, vexed. It is a warmer day than most and a good one for spearfishing and collecting shells for jewelry and decorations, even if your breath still clings to the air. Sparing a glance around the hall, you see no one, and nothing is occupying his time except for the thoughts he keeps locked away. "You could not come and find me yourself?" You cross your arms, stepping onto the dais. He doesn't respond. "Ragnar."

His attention turns to you, though the thoughts plaguing his mind have not fled entirely. "Come here, wife," he says sweetly, beckoning you to him with only his gaze and voice. You step to the throne, resting a hand on his shoulder —hoping he will share the burdens he feels he must shoulder with you. "Sit." You lift a brow, looking down at him. He rolls his head to the side with a sigh. "Please."

You give in to his demand, perching on his lap, legs draped across one of the wooden arms. His arms go around your waist. "What is it, my love?" He does not offer an answer —you hadn't expected him to, not really. You move, nigh falling from the precarious position, but he catches you, one hand curled around the bare skin of your calf, the other on your hip. Wordlessly, Ragnar's hand strays from your calf to the flesh just above your knee.

His palm is hot, resting there, calloused thumb rubbing distracting circles. You know what he's doing, could easily free yourself from his loose hold and leave him sitting on his throne, but the day began early, and this is a much-welcomed distraction. It was not often you were allotted hours in the day with Ragnar —not when there were children to keep and womanly duties to attend. Not when Ragnar had his own responsibilities as jarl to a quickly budding settlement.

He watches resignation pass over your expression, the corner of his lips twitching upward, another victory, however small it may be. Shifting, you balance yourself better on his lap, resting your head on his shoulder. "Do you still wish to return to your duties?" Ragnar asks, turning his head, nose brushing against yours as his hand straying higher. Sighing, you lift a hand to his cheek, fingers combing through his scraggily brown-blond beard. Ragnar plants a line of soft kisses from your earlobe down to your shoulder, smiling against your skin when your head lolls to the side —hand slipping to the back of his neck, beneath his warrior's braid.

"Kiss me," you command quietly. Ragnar needs no further encouragement. First, it is the tickle of his beard against your jaw, then the rough caress of his fingertips on your cheek before his lips barely brush over yours. He pulls back too quickly, leaving you to chase his kiss, and relents with a hushed groan from the back of this throat —parting both your lips slick folds. You open your mouth and legs for him to explore and claim, softly whimpering when he drags his thumb over your clit.

There almost whispered protest on your lips about being so exposed here when two of his fingers sink knuckle deep into your cunt —anyone could barge in, and a part of you comes to realize you wouldn't care if they did. Ragnar curls his fingers in your heat, feeling your muscles tense and flutter and his cock twitch —straining against the laces of his britches— a reminder of the distance between him and you of late.