Vikings Drabbles

⤭ unseen touches

both you and ragnar have your own ways to pass time during a feast. rated 18+ for smut. 

HIS HAND IS hot and heavy resting on your thigh under the table —out of sight from those who have traveled many weeks to answer his summons and offer to raid Paris. Ragnar Loðbrók's fingers curl into your thigh, the pads of his fingertips pressing into your skin, only separated by the wool of a blue-green dress. You breathe in, maintaining your composure before those gathered. The corners of his lips twitch upward behind his wiry blond beard, clear blue eyes smiling at you as though to say this is payback for leaving him hard and wanting this morning when your son woke from a bad dream, crying. He wouldn't, you think, breath catching. But he is, and he does.

Ragnar moves his elbow, inconspicuously, pushing the empty ale horn before you and at the edge of the table to the ground —landing with a soft thud barely heard over the tales of battle and previous raids on England. You cut your eyes at him as he leans toward you, reaching down to collect the cup, but as he straights back in his chair, he draws up the hem of your dress, bunching up the front of the coarse wool in your lap.

Placing the cup back onto the table, his hand returns to its resting place on your thigh, and now, there is nothing separating him from your bare flesh. Your glare is harsh, mind racing with both lust and the fear of being caught. It reminds you of the past when you would sneak from your parent's home in the late hours of the night, always meeting Ragnar beneath a great ash tree atop a hill.

His hand moves to your inner thigh and starts sliding upward. You press your knees together on impulse and reach under the table, grabbing his wrist. He leans back in his chair, glancing over, and you send him a stern look as to ask what if someone notices? Ragnar's nostrils flare when he sucks in a deep breath, reaching for his cup of ale, his other hand trapped between your thighs.

A moment passes, then another, and you begin to relax, thinking Ragnar got the message. You gasp in surprise, banging your knee on the underside of the table in surprise as he touches you again, skipping over the languid teasing, and runs his fingers along your slick folds. You whine quietly into the back of your hand. The urge to resist him is gone —you open your legs for him and watch the small smirk cross over his lips as he spreads your slick, rubbing circles around your clit. All the guests are oblivious to what is occurring beneath the table.

His strokes quicken, and you clear your throat to cover a moan. That garners the attention of the woman sitting closest to you on the bench — Freyðir, the wife of one of the Jarls in attendance. You wave off Freyðir's concern with a strained smile. Feigning ignorance, Ragnar glimpses you again; his eyes darkened with lust as his cock twitches in his britches. This is just as much torture for him as it is for you. He leans to you, chin resting on your shoulder with a soft, concerned smile —a sweet display had his rough fingers not been feverishly rubbing your clit. "Something wrong, wife?" He breathes, mocking, and it is at that moment he presses two fingers into your cunt.

Biting down on your lip, you squeeze your walls around his fingers, feeling every ridge and scar on his first two knuckles. Ragnar curls his fingers up, thumb pressing against your clit, you cry, almost silently —a tiny noise no one but he can hear. He pushes his fingers deeper, thrusting in and out, a torturous slow drag. Your hips rock forward, praying nobody sees, or at least no one knows. Freyðir glimpse you again, cheeks hot, sweat beading on your skin, as though you are suddenly fevered. She asks again if you are all right, and you nod, numbly.

It's like the world has vanished, and there's nothing but Ragnar's thick fingers buried in your cunt, rubbing up against a spot that makes your blood spark, igniting a flood of heat. His thumb covers the entirety of your clit as he rolls it, the sensation overwhelming. Your hips jerk, walls contracting around his fingers. Release is close —you feel it lapping at your toes, then ankles, and rising higher like an incoming tide until it engulfs you. Ragnar eases you down from the high, still lazily thrusting and curling his fingers, thumb pressed into your clit as your legs quiver, knuckles turning white with how tightly you grasp onto the edge of the table —like you could splinter the thick planks of wood.

Ragnar leans over in his chair, lips ghosting over your cheek —his beard tickling your jaw and neck. You turn your head, whining softly. To anyone watching, it will only look as though you are whispering in each other's ears. Eventually, his fingers slip from you, leaving a bitter hollowness in their wake. He glimpses his hand and the mess you'd made before wiping his hand on your thigh and dress, leaning back in his chair as though nothing happened at all.

The fog lifts from your mind. Ragnar easily falls into conversation with Jarl Svend, proposing a new trade deal between your small but growing kingdoms. Freyðir poses a question, drawing you into a conversation with one of her shieldmaidens. You are only half-invested in what they are saying, silently plotting revenge on Ragnar for his audacity. An eye for an eye, you decide, placing your hand on his thigh.

His eyes narrow, flaring with both a warning and challenge. The muscle in his thigh tenses as your hand dips between his legs, finding the length of his hard cock through his wool and leather britches. He shifts his hips, daring you to act on your plan of reprisal. The ties of his pants come undone easily, loosening until you can slip your hand down their front, hand resting at the base of his cock, fingers parsing across the hair below his navel, leading lower, and through the coarse thatch of trimmed hair around his cock.

Ragnar takes a deep breath but barely exhales. You squeeze his cock at the base, then slide your hand up his shaft, thick and ribbed with throbbing veins, thumb dancing over his weeping head. Ragnar groans low in his throat and louder than he intends, his lashes fluttering and his words faltering. It garners a curious look from Svend and others. You lean over in your seat. "Something wrong, husband?" You ask, a taunting whisper at his ear, stroking his cock with a slow, tender pump, up and down —and twisting near the head.

Your thumb grazes a protruding vein on the side of his cock until your hand comes back up to play with the tip, squeezing it slightly while your thumb circled the slit, and Ragnar's breath hitched with each squeeze. His cock twitches in your fingers. He's been bothered and in a mood all day, and you know if you keep this pace and motion, he won't last long at all. You smile when Freyðir compliments your home and the hospitality you and Ragnar have shown them and others.

His hips rise from the chair, thrusting into your curled hand. You hide a smile behind a cup of ale and continue stroking him, politely conversing. Ragnar runs his hand over his face, muffling a strangled groan, and sinks farther into his seat, spreading his legs, letting you do to him what you will. Given half the chance, he'd throw you upon the table and have his way with you —the thought fades, and he squeezes his eyes shut, leaning his head on a bent arm propped up on the table, mouth falling open.

He can't stop himself from caving into your touch, and with a particularly slow move of your hand, his cock twitches again, but this time it moves his entire body forward. You laugh at a joke one of the shieldmaidens tells Freyðir as Ragnar spills his seed into your hand. One last draw of your hand over his slick cock, and you withdraw your hand from his britches, wiping the sticky warmth on his thigh.

Breathless, Ragnar turns to you, catching your lips with his —a kiss no one thinks anything of, just a display between a loving husband and devoted wife— but you know the fire in it, the promise of what the night will hold, and it sets your blood afire all over again. He nips at your bottom lips as he parts, then moves to whisper in your ear. "Bed." His voice is rough, unusually so. "Now." You are not going to keep him waiting any longer. Rising, you brush down your skirt, excusing yourself from the dwindling festivities with a courteous smile.

You know the quick footsteps behind you, and before you can step from his reach, Ragnar has you strung over his shoulder, marching to your shared bedchambers. He slaps your bottom and is answered by your laugh, which he returns. There are moments where it feels as though nothing has changed since you were young, foolish lovers, and this is one of them.