Vikings Drabbles

⤭ disagreements

ragnar finds himself in a disagreement with his wife over a proposed alliance with king ecbert. rated 18+ for smut. 

HIS HAND IS rough when his fingers curl around your bicep and his grip strong —punishing in his fit of blind rage. Ragnar's breath is hot against the back of your neck, but unlike you, he appears calm. The madness is only alight in the stormy depths of his eyes. You turn to face him and see the red streaks across his cheek that align perfectly with your fingers. "This is not what I agreed to!" You hiss, face twisted at the very thought of the Saxon King's terms —terms to which your husband accepted without contemplation, without consulting those closes to him, you included. Collateral is what Ecbert of Wessex called it —an exchange of high-ranking and valued individuals to remain in good faith.

Ragnar looks down his nose at you, tilting his head, and leans down, his voice a venomous whisper at your ear. "Necessity demands our plans change," he reminds you. His dream —your dream— of a peaceful life with the fertile English soil meant pacifying the Saxons one way or another. If that meant allying his people with one king to help bring the downfall of another, then so be it. There are far worse things that could have come out of the meeting than sending his beloved to stay with Christians.

He steps back, hand falling away from your arm, daring you to speak against his decision again with only a look. But anger still festers in the pit of your stomach. Decisions such as this —affecting your people, your future— should not be made in haste. You first came to England together, and Ragnar had made promises now broken. You lift your chin, rage giving way to a sickly-sweet smile. "Do not forget, Ragnar," you begin, "I am your wife. The mother of your children."

The words strike something deep within him —the insinuation that he could ever forget you are the woman he swore himself to, the woman who gifted him two strong sons and a gentle daughter. Ragnar's nose twitches as he reaches for you with a closed fist. The backs of his knuckles brush over your cheek. He blinks, and it is though his eyes are brighter than ever, laced with determination and madness. You exhale, a shaky breath, refusing to back down until he says something, anything. His hand follows a braid in your hair, down your neck —fingers splaying out over the flesh. "How could I?" He taunts, thumb pressing against your jaw.

Neither of you is willing to back down, to set this aside and carry on. It is Ragnar who breaks first, knowing he is not prepared to feel your absence in the coming weeks. His kiss is aggressive and impatient. He moves his lips against yours like a man unrestrained, finally able to consume what —no, who— he's been craving since you first stormed off into the trees from the meeting. He steps closer, forcing you back until you bump against the trunk of a great ash tree.

You match his greedy touch without hesitation, running your hands up his torso, over the metal rings sewn into his dark raven armor, and around his neck, arching your back to fit the curve of his chest. He hooks his hand around the back of your knee and hikes it over his hip, pressing his pelvis to yours. You feel the ridge of his half-hard cock pressed against your hip. Seeing you like this made his blood boil in more ways than one. And his kiss, controlling and bruising, and the light pressure on your neck —heat pools low in your belly.

With the heat of his mouth and the broad expanse of his form, he envelops you, devours you. Ragnar releases you, his hands darting to the ties of his britches. You mimic his movements, ridding yourself of your swordbelt and the painted shield on your back —throwing both to the forest floor. But you are not quick enough to satiate his temper and impatience. Ragnar shoves your hands out of the way, pulling at the ties of your pants. He towers over you, leering when he sees the hunger in your eyes and feels the heat flushing your skin —hears the shallow breaths passing your parted lips when he presses you tightly between the tree and his body.

His hands stray from your waist to the back of your thighs, lifting you —and only a moment later, his cock is nudging at your slick cunt before he presses himself into you with a fluid snap of his hips. It pulls a ragged groan from his lips as he feels your warmth engulf him. With your ankles linked at the base of his spine, the heels of your soft leather boots pressing against his back, you carve your fingernails into the ropes of muscle rippling across his shoulder blades through the wool of his tunic.

Ragnar bites down hard where your neck and shoulder join, tearing a yelp from your hoarse throat and leaving a lasting mark to remember this moment. Your eyes flash open, meeting his —wild, dangerous, carnal. It is all you can do to hold fast to him, to keep from falling as he thrusts into you over and over, trying to meet his hips with your own. You arch into him, hands moving from his shoulders to his neck. Ragnar bares his teeth when you pull back on his warrior's braid, hard enough to tilt his head back. His next thrust is harsh —retaliation.

Breathless, you seek out his lips, and he obliges with a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss —panting and moaning into each other's mouth. He knows you are right on the precipice, and he leans in closer, giving you that nudge and his permission in a raspy whisper against your ear. You clench around his twitching cock.

A strangled groan passes through his gaping mouth as he presses through the tightness —striking the place that makes your limbs go weak. "Ragnar," you plead, the whisper of his name a prayer that saps away whatever ire he'd felt before this moment. He shifts, the angle changes and each thrust sends a spark of friction where you are joined. Ragnar watches as your head tilts back, eyes droop shut, and ecstasy overtakes you, but he is not done yet —has not had his fill.

He slams into you and clamps his hands around your waist so he can yank you back onto his cock. His thrusts are uneven, uncaged, unhinged. Ragnar pants and grunts and groans against your neck, using your body to chase his own end. All you can do is hold tight and endure the punishment until his hips lose their rhythm. He presses his face against your neck, cock twitching as he spills himself deep in your warmth, listening to the sound of your thundering heartbeat.

Ragnar keeps you pinned against the tree with his hips, his hands pressing yours back into the rough bark. The scrape of the tree against your backside and hands, his cock softening and seed dripping from your ruined cunt —it's too much, and just for the moment, you will forget your previous misgivings and relish the feel of him. A warm thought to keep you company on lonely nights. He leans toward you, lips ghosting along your jawline until he reaches your ear. "Do not forget," he echoes, almost mocking your previous words, but the glint in his eyes is more mirth than anger now, "I am your husband."

He lets you down and steps back, righting himself as you do the same on shaky legs, replacing your swordbelt and shield as he picks up his axe and sword. You step to him, resting your hand over the fading marks on his cheek, fingers combing through the wiry hair of his unkempt beard. "How could I ever forget you, Ragnar Loðbrók?" You query, turning back to join the Saxons at their camp —unwilling to turn your husband into an oathbreaker.