✨liv✨

but when she tries to step past him, he grabs her wrist, gently like he's done it a million times (which he did but oops!)

“c’mere, pretty girl.”

and she does. so easy. so stupidly sweet for him. straddles his lap without thinking, without blinking.

she’s still talking about the joke when his hands slide under her shirt and she gasps like it's her first time getting touched by him.

“you don’t even know what you do to me,” he mutters, mouth brushing her jaw. “so damn pretty and you don’t even get it.”

her breath catches. she always gets quiet when he talks like this — voice low and close, like it’s just for her.

“s’that okay?” he whispers, lips dragging along her throat. “me touching you like this?”

she nods too fast. whines a little when he shifts his hips.

“good girl,” he breathes, like a sin.

his hands are everywhere — her thighs, her waist, her lower back all hot skin and teasing fingers.

“just wanted to remind you who you’re giggling for.”

her lashes flutter. “i wasn’t—”

“shh.” he pulls her closer, his lips ghosting over hers but not kissing yet. “you don’t have to lie, angel.”

and then he does kiss her open-mouthed, slow and filthy. her fingers knot in his curls like it’s muscle memory.

“so good f’me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down her neck. “sweetest thing i’ve ever tasted.”

her hips move deliciously slow without thinking. he groans into her skin.

“look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “just sitting there, letting me ruin you.”

she’s not even trying. she’s just… like this. soft. open. all for him.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers, lips brushing her collarbone. “but gods, what a way to go."

They already know how the story goes, they have heard about it at least twice now, but every time they look as interested on it as if it was their first time hearing about it.

"We were friends for a long time. I always thought that's all we would ever be." She starts, settling down the brush. "Percy was just... you know, Percy. All charming and brave and, well— completely clueless about my crush on him."

One of them giggles. "You had a crush on him first? wasn't he the one that asked you out?"

"Yes, he was, but it took him long enough to do it." she replies, smiling fondly at the memory as she starts to braid her sister's hair. "We kissed first, can you believe it? and even after that, Percy was still a nervous wreck when he asked me out. It was like he had forgotten how to talk and kept stumbling over his words, I honestly thought he was choking at some point."

The group erupts into laughter.

"And did you say yes right away?" Another sister pipes up, leaning forward with anticipation.

"I don't think he would've survived if I didn’t." She grins, her fingers working on the braid. "He was so sweet, he took me out for a picnic by the lake and he was honestly... just so perfect. I couldn't say no to him."

One of her brothers smirks, leaning back. "I would've made him work harder for it."

"He's worth it. He's always worth it." a chorus of 'awws' fill the room just as she's finished with her Lily's braid. "Okay, who's next?"

Lily grins at her and goes to sit down with the rest of the siblings, happy with her new braid, and the next sister in line takes her place on the bed while y/n grabs the brush again.

She knows they're not done with their questions. "And how did you two kiss for the first time?"

Beaming at the question, she tells the whole story again and again, going through the details while keeping everyone's hair knotless and braided.

Percy has always been amused by y/n's relationship with her siblings. Besides Tyson, he doesn't have anyone else to share a cabin with, so he doesn’t really get too many bonding opportunities as she does. She always tells him about the endless afternoons of talking, the movie nights, the blanket forts, and he can't help but feel just the tiniest bit of envy as he listens.

Right now, Tyson isn't even around because he's too busy to come back to camp this summer. So even if Percy's trying hard to respect his girlfriend's quality time with her siblings this afternoon, he ends up missing her too much.

Which leads him here, finally giving up on spending time by himself, he heads towards cabin 10, hoping y/n will let him crash her sleepover because he just needs to see her.

However, just when he's about to knock on the wooden door, he notices it's slightly cracked open. Laughter spills out, and he can even pick up her laugh among the others.

He doesn’t mean to pry, really, but it's not his fault that just when he's about to announce himself, he hears one of her little sisters asking. "And do you think you'll marry him?"

Percy stops right on his track, something just tells him they're talking about him. His suspicions only get confirmed when y/n is the one replying to the question. "Well, we're still young. But I can't picture myself marrying anyone else, you know?"

Gasps and excited chatter fill the room. Some of them beg for her to be flower girls at the wedding, while she tries, and fails, to get them to quiet down.

Percy's frozen in his spot. His heart skips a beat or two at her words. He leans against the doorframe, unable to stop the smile creeping across his face.

"Do you think he wants to marry you, too?" another one asks when the room finally falls silent again.

He does. Percy wants to make his presence known just to answer the question himself.

y/n chuckles softly "Well that's something that you'd have to ask him. But I sure hope so."

"You should propose to him instead." one suggests, they all break into a fit of giggles.

"Maybe I should. Do you reckon he'd like that?" She asks playfully.

Another sibling chimes in "He'd probably faint right on the spot."

Percy can't help himself anymore. Before he can think it through, his knuckles softly knock on the door. Everyone immediately falls silent, turning to look at the doorway, where he's shyly standing.

y/n's smile grows bigger once she looks up and finds him there. "Percy!"

"hope i'm not interrupting anything." he steps in, trying to keep his cool even though his heart is racing.

The Aphrodite kids exchange mischievous looks, some covering their mouths to hide their giggles. Lacy's the one to pipe up. "We were just talking about you!"

"Oh, really?" Percy has to act as if he didn’t know that already, raising his eyebrows as he glances at y/n, her cheeks are already tinted a pretty shade of pink. "Good things, I hope?"

"Of course" she recovers quickly, making some space for him to sit beside her on the bed. "What are you doing here?"

Percy carefully steps around the circle of Aphrodite kids on the floor and plops down beside her. "Just missed you." He replies simply, already reaching for her hand.

Her siblings immediately protest. "Don't distract her! it's her turn to braid."

She laughs, setting the brush down and instead taking Percy's hand, her delicate fingers lacing with his. "Don't worry, I'll still braid everyone's hair. Percy's just here to join the fun."

He chuckles, playfully shrugging. "I've always wanted to learn how to braid, I guess"

Her siblings break into laughter, and y/n rolls her eyes affectionately. That's how Percy ends up being instructed by a bunch of Aphrodite children on how to make a perfect braid while he listens to their chatter, laughing as they share stories with him.

Every now and then, y/n sneaks a glance at him, her eyes soft with affection and he remembers what he overheard. He will never forget it. But everytime she looks at him, he knows she wasn't lying just by the love he's able to see in her eyes.

Later, when everyone is happy with their braids and every story they could think about has been told, they start to drift away to their different sides of the cabin and Percy finds his perfect opportunity to mention what he overheard. He can't keep it to himself any longer.

"For the record." He starts, tugging her closer to him. "I can't picture myself marrying anyone else either."

Her breath catches and her face turns crimson. She immediately hides her face against his chest. "You weren't supposed to hear that!"

Percy laughs, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a soft kiss against her temple. "Just let me take care of the proposal, yeah?"

She's utterly embarrased, but she finally laughs, swatting his chest lightly as she mumbles. "Deal"

He lets go of your wrist but pinches your chin between his fingers and leans forward, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair and flesh —stirring old memories. “Ragnar was never enough to slake your lust, was he?” Harald asks, loud enough for all those in attendance to hear. He looks over his shoulder to Halfdan, smiling, then back to you and finally Ragnar, with the rage of the gods burning in his eyes. “That’s why you welcomed my brother and me so warmly between your thighs.”

Swallowing the rising lump in your throat, you tear yourself from Harald’s hold, reaching for the dagger at the back of your belt —he’s hardly fazed when you lay the blade’s edge against his neck as a warning. “Speak again,” you hiss, “and I will cut out your tongue.” Halfdan moves forward from his seat, the sword at his hip quarter-drawn. You look to Ragnar and see the question and betrayal in his eyes. Huffing, you pull the dagger back and step away, shoulders heaving in anger.

“Do you see?” Harald asks, turning to address your people with his arms spread open wide in victory. “She would not act this way if it were not true.” Whispers echo around the hall. Harald turns back, his gaze falling on you —knowing you cannot deny him— before moving to face Ragnar’s wrath. Unwilling to suffer the humiliation of Harald’s accusations, you storm past Ragnar and your throne to the back of the Great Hall.

THE DOOR CREAKS open after some time, and silently, Ragnar moves toward you at the center of the room, taking a moment to study your look of disarray —hair unbound from a crowning braid, eyes shining with tears and resentment. He stops bedside, rough fingertips trailing along the shell of your ear, down your neck and clothed back, and then the bed dips, and Ragnar nigh lays atop you. “Tell me Harald speaks falsely,” he whispers at your ear, pressing you against the straw-and-rag-filled mattress with his chest flush to your back —the scraggly beard on his chin and jaw scraping across your bare shoulder and neck. You shiver. “Tell me you did not fuck them.”

Were you not pinned under his weight, you would have slapped him for even harboring the thought. “You would take his word over mine? The word of your wife and mother to your children?” You spit. Ragnar sees the heat in your stare as he tilts his head —and yet it is still not an answer to a simple question.

“Mine,” Ragnar says, a husky whisper at your ear, chest rising and falling rapidly, spurred by his anger. You do not get to question him, barely have time to react before he spins you to face him, his knees straddling your thighs and his lips on yours in a bruising kiss. It takes you a heartbeat to retaliate just as vigorously. You tug at Ragnar, at his tunic and hips, beckoning him closer. He almost laughs at your desperation as he twines his hand into your hair and pulls back —almost harshly. You gasp into the kiss before it is broken.

Meeting Ragnar’s gaze, you shudder, having only ever seen his eyes this blue and intense before a battle. The misdeeds we do for love. He studies your face, looking for any sign of deception, but he can find none. His anger settles though something else takes root in its place —jealousy. Even the thought of you laying with another is enough to make his skin crawl, but the image of you lying with the men who sought to steal his title and power? It’s enough to set his blood boiling over again. Falsehood or no, he will have you remember who you belong to before the night’s end.

“If I am yours,” you whisper, lifting your hand to rest on his chest, finger curling into the neckline of his dark tunic, “then you are mine.” It’s an echo of the oaths you took before becoming husband and wife.

“That is the vows we took,” he agrees, and a second later, you’re on each other again. This time, Ragnar pulls you in until you’re flush against him with nowhere to flee, so all you can think about is the warm strength of his body pressed to yours. The kiss is just as intense and demanding as the first. He grips tightly to your hips, fingertips planting bruises and then massaging them away —he needs to mark you, even if it’s just for a few days, so no one can deny that you belong to him. Ragnar pulls his lips away from yours, latching onto your neck a moment later. You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, savoring the feeling of his hot lips on your skin.

Your focus shifts from his lips to farther down your entwined bodies; with how close you are, you can feel Ragnar’s arousal pressing into your hip as he keeps himself busy, leaving bruises all over the side of your neck and what he can reach of your collarbone. You move your thigh against him, and he grinds down into you with a muffled gasp. “Ragnar.” You say, immediately cursing yourself for how hoarse your voice sounds after what little he’s done to you. He pulls away from your neck to look down at you —lust clouds his eyes, but the blue rimming the black of his pupils is still almost glowing.

Ragnar moves his arm, reaching to gather up the hem of your skirt, bunching it up at your hips. His fingers press against you, stroking and teasing, but doing nothing to relieve the heat and desperation for friction. You wiggle your hips, but Ragnar is adamant —this will be your punishment. “Mine,” he breathes at your ear, cupping your cunt, the heel of his palm grinding into your clit. You whimper, nodding your agreement, whatever will get him to break the quickest and take you.

He sits back on his haunches, urging you to sit up, hands moving to tug your dress overhead —it lands in a heap of wool and linen on the floor. Then he’s doing away with his dark tunic and untying the leather laces of his britches and shoving them down his thighs, to the floor, and settling back above you and between your thighs. The head of his hard and weeping cock nudging at your warmth and your throat dries instantly, all protest and pleads silenced.

“Only I see you like this,” Ragnar breathes, his hand sliding from your neck down a straight line between your breasts and over your stomach down to your clit. He holds you there for several too-long moments before he slides two fingers into your cunt, thrusting and curling them only thrice —just enough to spread your slick over his cock before lining himself up and pressing into you slowly, letting your feel every vein and ridge. He groans, staying still for another second once his hips are flush to yours, adjusting his grip on your waist and hips, letting you run your hands along his scarred arms and chest until your nails finally dig into his shoulders. You both moan in unison as he draws back, then pulls your hips down at the same time he thrusts back into you. “Only I get to fuck you,” he hisses, beginning to move in earnest.

Just as there was hardly any buildup before Ragnar entered you, he doesn’t both building up a rhythm now. Ragnar drives into you at a punishing pace, barely giving you time to breathe. Moans and whispers of his name tumble past your lips in an endless stream. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back, unable to deny him or yourself. “You’re mine," Ragnar pants into what little space there is between you. A shiver runs down your spine as Ragnar breathes your name, a broken moan. You lift your head and look him in the eyes —there’s barely any color left in them. All stubbornness and rage have left his gaze; instead, all you find is carnal need and something akin or adoration. When your lips meet this time, it’s still frantic and desperate but not quite as brutal as before.

Ragnar’s pace quickens again, the kiss ending as abruptly as it began, your head pressing back into the bed. His head stoops forward, teeth dragging across the swells of your breasts, a warning before he draws a pebbled nipple between his lips, lightly biting down. You jump, back arching toward him. He licks a stripe across your collarbone, then rests his forehead on yours, sharing breaths and quick, sloppy kisses between pants and moans and whispers of each other’s names.

He hisses when your nails slip from his shoulders, dragging down his back and over his sides —you are not the only one who will bear the marks of this moment. You pull on the braid binding his dirty-blond hair, hard enough to make him groan and expose his neck to your torment, a small moment of victory. You suck and bite a line of bruises across his collarbone, moving upward to the base of his neck. Ragnar fights back his moan —this is about him claiming you, not the other way around. He moves, changing the angle of his thrusts and tilting your hips up. It’s not much, but it’s enough for you to fall away from his neck —face twisting.

You’ve done this often enough to easily tell when Ragnar is close to his end. His moans turn to pants, groans to staccato grunts, and his entire frame trembles with the need for release. You whine when his fingers find your clit, and it’s answered by a similar noise from Ragnar at how your walls flutter and tighten around him. When you look at him now, the look in his eyes has turned desperate, searching —but the danger still lurks, like a caged beast.

With a rough groan, Ragnar comes inside you, burying himself deeps and holding you as tightly as he can. At the feel of his cock twitching inside you, spilling warm seed, you, too, reach a precipice with his thumb still rubbing worrying circles over your clit. Pleasure rolls over you in fiery waves, engulfing you and dragging you under until you think you can’t breathe. Your whole body alight in the places where Ragnar’s skin is pressed to yours. Ragnar presses through the vise-grip of your cunt, thrusting several times more, each one lazier than the last, until he stills completely, watching as you slip down from the high. He’s fully spent by the time your vision clears, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he catches his breath. “Mine,” he says again as if you could ever forget, ever doubt the claim Ragnar Lothbrok has over your heart, body, and mind.

For a moment, you stay like this. But the calm after the storm quickly pasts. With a sigh and a groan, Ragnar slides his cock from you, taking a moment to admire how his seed drips from your ruined cunt and onto the blankets below before flopping onto his back —looking up at the rafters above. He doesn’t know what to say, has never been one for pillow talk, but he thinks the burgeoning bruises on your hips and the blue-purple marks on your neck speak for themselves.

He’s laid his claim. It does not matter if Harald spoke the truth —Ragnar has ruined you so well you’ll never be able to enjoy the feel of another man without first thinking of him. You roll onto your side, looking over him. His clear and dark blue gaze pins you in place.

Hesitant, you cup his cheek, fingers loosely combing through his beard as you lean toward him. “I am yours, Ragnar,” your whisper at his lips, a gentle confirmation and reassurance that his fear, jealousy, and anger are all unfounded. “I have been yours since we spake our vows before the gods.” Ragnar rolls onto his side too and slides his arm beneath your head and the other around your middle. His nose brushes against yours, and a heartbeat later, his lips touch yours, as soft and loving as when he first took you into his arms. You sigh against his mouth, and he need not say anything more than a gentle kiss and holding you close until the morning light.

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 lip 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.

[ Vikings taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia @gossamarnie @n0sferatus @alicedopey @charming-merlin @ahotmesswithprivilege @certifiedlittleshit @pats-talking @gearhead66 @mrsragnarlodbrok @xxdearlybeloved (for Ragnar) ] if you want to be added to my Vikings (Harald, Halfdan, and Ragnar) taglist, just let me know! if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you.

BREAKFAST IS A bowl of porridge with salted herring and dried wild berries from the last days of summer. Ragnar sets aside his empty bowl, washing down the last bite with watered ale, then leans forward on the table toward Björn and Hjalmarr sitting opposite you and him. He’s finally settled on what it is he can do to give you some time to yourself. “Let’s go fishing,” he says. With the snowpack, fresh fish could be kept for days on end to fill all your bellies, and extra could always be salted, dried, and added to the reserves. They both grin, hurriedly devouring the remaining porridge and clambering over one another for their winter furs and cloaks.

A few days ago, there’d been heavy snow that’d kept everyone cooped up inside, and since the storm passed, Björn and Hjalmarr had been anxious to get outside again —or visit their uncle. Ragnar gathers the fishing line, lures, and two axes, placing everything in a woven basket to carry down to the inlet. You drape his winter cloak over his shoulders, securing the tie and clasp under his chin, biding him good luck with a kiss on the cheek. Then you turn to your son and daughter, kissing their foreheads too. They frown, hoping you would have gone with them. “Won’t you come, mother?” Hjalmarr asks. Her eyes —a mirror reflection of her father’s— are wide and pleading, and it’s impossible to say no.

Ragnar treads out onto the ice first, tapping a walking stick before each step, then waves to the shore once he's far enough out, beckoning you and the children to follow. Björn and Hjalmarr carry a sturdy stick, tapping the ice as they go, just as their father did. Before cutting a hole in the ice, Ragnar lays out the piece of twine, unknotting it in places, then spaces out the wooden lures —hand-carved chips of bark and scraps from Floki’s shipyard shaped into small fishes and writhing worms— and hooks. He begins securing each one on the line with a loop, showing Björn and Hjalmarr. It's not the first time they've been ice fishing, but with time all lessons could fade from memory.

“They’ll come free too easily if you do that.” His eyes narrow as they flick up to you, nose scrunching up at the criticism —he’s done it like this a dozen times over. Hjalmarr laughs into her scarf. “I had a father, Ragnar,” you remind him, kneeling to show both your husband and children how you’d been taught to secure lures and hooks to a line when ice fishing. Amid winter, you couldn’t chance losing a lure to the icy depths or letting the evening meal swim away —a sturdy knot would make sure neither happened.

The ice is thick and does not easily yield as Ragnar chips away at the surface with his axes —looking to make a hole large enough for a sizable catch to pass through. When he finally breaches the frigid water below, you lower the longest line down, bracing it over the hole with his walking stick. He makes two more holes —smaller than the first— and helps Björn and Hjalmarr tie the line to their sticks and a stone at the opposite end to keep the line from tangling in the currents and tides. Now all there is to do is wait. But for an impatient little víkingr, that is the hardest part.

Not long after and with no fish biting yet, Björn complains of boredom and treks back to the shoreline to find two branches he and his father can use as swords to train and pass the time. While they tussle, you and Hjalmarr spectate, keeping the hole from freezing over —skimming off the fresh ice— and jig the lures from time to time, hoping soon to have a bite.

It doesn’t take long for Björn to tire out —or at least grow tired of losing. He grows stronger each year, but he still has much to learn before he is ready to join his father and uncle on raids or take up a position in the shield wall. Despite the losses, Ragnar praises his son and ruffles his hair with a smile, nudging him back to where you and his sister sit. “You almost had him a few times,” you whisper to your son as he sits next to you, patting down his hair.

“I think you have something, Hjalmarr,” Ragnar announces, seeing how the stick braced over the hole moves and bounces —there’s a fish on the line. Rising from the ice, Ragnar brushes the snow from his face and goes to help her pull the fish from the water. “A good catch,” he compliments, freeing the hook from its mouth before placing the wriggling fish into a woven basket. You peer over his shoulder, seeing the prized catch, and the first of the day —it must weigh two stone if not more. “Pollock,” you note. “That’ll make a good stew for tonight.”

AS ALL NIGHTS end, you shoo Björn and Hjalmarr to bed —covering them with woven blankets and patchworks of fur to ward off the night chill— and bid them fair dreams with a kiss upon their brow. When you begin to rise, Björn tugs on your sleeve. You know the glint in his eyes well enough, the same look Ragnar wears when he wants something or needs to make amends. Hjalmarr giggles, knowing what her older brother is planning. “Will I ever have a brother?” He asks. Björn loves his sister as any good brother does, but when Ragnar and Rollo are away, he wishes for a brother to play swords with instead of helping you and his sister with chores and weaving.

The idea of another child is one you have often toyed with. Björn is almost eight, and Hjalmarr is already four —a part of you longs to have the laughter of a babe fill your home again and, more selfishly, to someday have another pair of hands to help on the farm. You brush back Björn’s hair, almost the same shade as his father’s. “Do you want a brother, Björn?” He nods, and his sister nods too. Smiling, you shake your head. “Your father and I will see what we can do about that,” you tell him, tapping his nose before giving them both another kiss goodnight. “Now, go to sleep, or an aptrganga will come and bite off all your toes.” It's the same threat your father used to tell you when you didn't want to go to bed and it works just as well on your children as it once had one you.

Ragnar is quiet as he joins you in bed, having stoked the hearth for the night. He stretches out his arm, and out of instinct, you pillow your head on his bicep —draping a leg across his waist to have him close on the cold winter nights. His fingers dance along your spine, a rhythmic up-and-down motion until he settles on fiddling with the ends of your hair and turns his head to look upon you. Björn’s question still echoes in his mind, and Ragnar cannot deny the allure of another son, but that decision is not solely his to make. “Do you want another child?” He asks. The question a whisper against your temple.

You turn further into his side, finding the small scars on his chest and sides with your fingertips —by now, you’ve memorized their placement and the stories of how he got them. Ragnar watches you, trying to judge your answer by your expression, but for the years of marriage and the time before, he still cannot read you easily. “Two is a handful,” you note, half-smiling. Björn and Hjalmarr may have been the bane of your mornings, but there’s nothing in the Nine Realms you would trade this life for. Your home, husband, and children were all you could ever want in this life. Then you sigh, knowing now is the time to tell him. “But I think three would make our family complete.”

He smiles, bright eyes sparkling in the dim light. Ragnar has never been one for words, preferring actions over empty conversations, and now is no different. The backs of his fingers brush over your cheek, and he moves closer, hand cradling the back of your head —lips eager and gentle against yours. You lean into him —can taste the honey-sweet mead from supper lingering on his tongue.

With a sigh, you pull away, fingers combing through his scraggly beard. “And I do not think we will have to wait long,” you tell him, bringing his hand to rest over your belly. It’d been two moons since you last bled, and if your dreams were anything to go on, then you carry another son for Ragnar —a new brother for Björn and Hjalmarr. Ragnar exhales —a shaky breath— searching your expression for affirmation. You nod, smiling.

Before the mid-summer harvest, he would be a father once more and you a mother. He steals another kiss, short but still sweet, then kisses your forehead, lips lingering there as he whispers his affections —barely audible— before tucking you into his chest, enveloping you with his arms and warmth. As a young girl, you prayed the gods would give you a loving husband and healthy family, and now you could ask for nothing more.

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’s almost a 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.

The coil in your stomach tightens, and when you gasp aloud, he presses his mouth to yours, eagerly swallowing the noise as a man starved. He could take you to bed or behind the partition of the Great Hall and ravish you in full, skin-to-skin, but there’s too much to do this day and too little time. No, Ragnar will take you on the throne of Kattegat here and now —he is ruler after all.

Ragnar withdraws his fingers, along with a whine of protest from you, but he pushes at you gently to get up. He straightens in the chair, moving forward to the edge, feet planted firmly on the floor as he fumbles to unlace his breeches —freeing his hard cock. You need no further instruction, hitching your skirt up around your waist as you straddle him.

He’s so hard and warm beneath you, cock twitching —aching— all for you. His cheeks are flushed, fighting to maintain his composure. But you hold so much power over him, and now you are perched atop your throne. You reach down, shuffling your skirts out of the way, and take him in hand. Ragnar can’t stop his moan when he feels the softness of your grip wrap around his cock, beginning to stroke him. You watch his face — the way his jaw tightens and his brow furrows in concentration as he tries to think of anything but your soft hand and your weight on his hips.

Holding his cock, you slowly sink down. Ragnar groans, cursing below his breath. Your moan is buried into his hair as you roll your hips, kissing a path down to his forehead and nose. You refuse to move for several long seconds, instead, you let him rest inside you, warming his cock as you tighten your muscles, adjusting to his length and girth. You can hear Ragnar’s breaths picking up pace —impatient.

The first rock of your hips is tentative —testing your balance— the second sends you into a spiral of bliss. Ragnar’s hand caresses down your jaw until it falls at your throat, fingers splayed out in dominance there, a necklace made of bones and skin and him. A darkness consumes his eyes, pupils wide with a new sort of lust that wasn’t there before.

When you begin to move in earnest, his hands trail along your curves, squeezing tight on your thighs, fingertips pressing into flesh through the wool dress. Letting out a small whine, you lift your hips, hands seeking purchase on his broad and strong shoulders. Ragnar hisses when he feels your blunt nails dig into his skin through his tunic. Your pace is somehow both rushed and languid as you ride his cock —every press of your hips back to his triggering a jolt of pleasure.

His thrusts soon meet yours, hips rising from the throne. You squirm atop him, the head of his cock striking the place deep inside you with every movement. The coil in your stomach tightens again, and this time you will have your end —can feel it build inside you like a million sparks raising through your veins.

Moving to balance yourself, you slide your other hand between your bodies, but Ragnar tuts you, pushing aside your hand to replace it with his own. He rustles around, moving your skirts out of the way, and presses the rough pads of his fingertips against your clit in a way that tells you that’s my job. Only he will be the one able to make you come apart like this, the only one to see you so thoroughly ravished.

He rubs tight circles —the friction tears a long, drawn-out moan from your parted lips that you do your best to muffle against his neck. The falter of your pace sets you both out of rhythm, but it does not matter now. Not when your cunt clenches around his cock with each downward and upward thrust. Ragnar makes a noise, halfway between a grunt and moan. A good husband would see you to completion first, but the days apart —he cannot last.

Your name spills like a whisper over his lips, and you can’t help it —between the smooth grind of your hips and the little whimpers and groans betraying both your lips— you press your mouth to Ragnar’s, feel the warmth of his tongue against yours. He relinquishes beneath you, giving himself over wholly.

But his pace does not slow. Ragnar ruts up into you, fingers still rubbing at your clit until it's too much. The warmth of his release, the friction, the tightness in your gut. Your head lolls back, eyes closed and lips parted, and only when you are descending does he finally pull his hand from between your bodies, his arms wrapping around your back, keeping you pressed against his chest.

Ragnar hums his content, stroking your hand and down your back —drawing circles and runes through the fabric of your dress. He presses his cheek to the crown of your head. If the gods were less cruel, they would let him keep you like this. But each moment that passes means less time and more chance his children or brother could barge into the hall to find such a sight.

“You should prepare for the arrival of our first guests,” he says. You sit up, leaning back to look him in the eye, brows furrowed in confusion. “We are going to Paris,” he announces, the first you’ve heard of such plans. Every time the great city to the east had been mentioned by the monk, the thought of every traveling there remained wild fever dreams. But the glint in his eyes is filled with determination, and now you understood —at least in part— the burden he shouldered.

“You couldn’t’ve told me this when I woke?” You ask. He does a little half-shrug, head tilting to take in the sight of you, thoroughly disheveled and fucked. You rise on wobbly legs —groaning at the feel of Ragnar’s cock slipping from your warmth and his seed trickling down your thighs— righting your skirt and bodice. He sits back in the chair, stuffing his softening cock back into his pants, sloppily doing up the laces to make himself look decent. “Well,” you start, motioning for him to follow after you, “won’t you come help your wife?” A trice later, you hear Ragnar’s heavy footfalls behind you.

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.

Everyone in the city moves in a panic as the bells ring, alarms in response to the Northmen pulling up to your shores. You find a spot in your house to hide and clutch your cross close to your chest as you pray to god to protect you from these heathens.

A bang startles you as a Viking man kicks down your door. Your heart races as you hear him tearing apart the house searching for valuables. You hear screams outside and continue whispering prayers to god begging him to keep you from being found.

The Viking eventually finds you hiding in a corner between your bed and the wall. Your heart stops when his bright blue eyes meet yours. His eyes examine you from head to toe before he smirks.

“Please… please don’t kill me.” You beg through oncoming tears. “Take whatever you want, just please.”

“Come.” He reaches his hand out for you to take.

You look up at him with furrowed brows in confusion.

“You said I can take whatever I want.” The man says. “So come.”

“No, no, please. Please don’t hurt me…” You cry.

“If you come with me, I will have no reason to hurt you.” He steps closer. “Otherwise…” He gestures to the axe in his hand.

You sniffle as you get up onto your feet. The Viking gestures his hand out to you again which you reluctantly take. He rushes out of the house, dragging you along with him. A small shriek escapes you as your eyes take in the dead bodies and blood everywhere. The man pays no mind to any of it as he pulls you through the city and leads you right out the front gates and into their Viking camp.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” A large Viking man with long dark hair approaches you. You pull away as he tries to brush hair from your face.

“Leave her be.” Your captor says as more of the men come over to ogle at you.

“Why? She is a useless Christian. Only good for one thing...” The man smirks at you.

“She is mine, keep your hands to yourself Rollo.” Your captor replies. “That goes for all of you! No one touches her, she belongs to me.”

You take a small breath of relief before your captor grabs your hand again and leads you far from the group and into a tent.

“Sit.” The man gestures to a small cot. “What is your name?”

“(y/n).” You say as you sit.

“(y/n)…” He hums. “Interesting name. I’m Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“Thank you Ragnar.” You say lowly.

“For what?”

“Out there, protecting me from the other men…” You respond. “And I guess… thank you for not killing me.”

“Like I said to the men, you are mine. They will not harm you as long as you are with me, understand?”

You nod your head.

“What are you going to do with me?” You ask.

He smirks in response before looking you up and down, making you nervous.

“I have not decided yet.” He shrugs with a smirk still on his face.

**********

The journey back to their land was long and dreadful. You had never been on a boat before and the ride made you nauseous. Ragnar kept a close eye on you and made sure no one bothered you.

As soon as they dock Ragnar quickly sneaks you away like he is trying to hide you. He leads you to his small farmhouse outside of town.

“Am I your slave now?” You ask once inside.

He laughs at your response and you scowl.

“I have no need for slaves.” He shrugs.

“If you wish to cook or clean for me, or do other things…” He smirks at you suggestively, making you blush. “I would certainly not object, but you will not be forced to do anything.”

“So I am not a slave… but I am not a free woman?” You question.

“Yes.” He simply responds.

“Then why am I here?”

“I do not know. The gods have not revealed your purpose to me yet.”

“There is only one god.” You say sternly.

He laughs again making anger rise in your cheeks.

“Maybe your god will reveal to you your purpose then.” He says teasingly.

**********

The next couple days were surprisingly peaceful. You did not dare to try and leave the house. Although he never asked you to, you cooked and cleaned mostly to have something to occupy your time but Ragnar appreciated you either way. He would disappear for most of the day to god knows where, but when he returned you would have a hot meal waiting for him.

Ragnar would ask many questions, about your life and your god. You asked about him in return and he told you all about his adventures and of his gods.

“Are you a virgin?” Ragnar asks out of nowhere while you are eating supper.

You choke on your drink, the question taking you off guard.

“Pardon?”

“Well, you are unmarried right?” He continues. “I have heard Christians remain virgins until they are married.”

“Well, um, yes. It would be a sin otherwise.” You respond shyly.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is it a sin?” He asks with curiosity in his tone.

“I- um, I don’t know. It’s just a sin. You should only make children with your husband or wife.”

“Well, that is a bit silly isn’t it?”

“What is so ‘silly’ about that?” You scowl.

“Because making children is not the only reason to have sex.” He shrugs.

“What do you mean?” You ask, heat rising in your cheeks from annoyance and another feeling you couldn’t quite place.

“Do they teach you nothing?” He raises his brow.

“Not really… especially us women. They keep us sheltered from everything.”

“Well,” He says, taking the food bowl from your hands and placing it down.

He leans towards you until his breath brushes your ear, sending shivers up your spine.

“Sex can provide you with the greatest of pleasures…” He says lowly in your ear, your heart races. “If you know where to touch.” His fingers graze up your knee.

“Your gods… they do not care if you sin?” You ask but it comes out as a whisper.

He chuckles.

“To our gods, it is not wrong. The gods gave us the gift of such pleasure, why would they deny us from taking it?” He shrugs.

“I guess that is true…” You whisper.

“I can show you our ways, if you want.” He says with a devilish grin, moving his hand back to your knee.

“What? No. No I- Um, no… thank you.” You stutter, taken aback by his offer.

“Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me.” He whispers in your ear before standing and cleaning up from supper.

You go to bed early, trying to hide your flushed cheeks since your conversation. Ragnar eventually begins to lightly snore from the next room that was only separated by a thin wall with gaps you could see through. His words replay in your head, “greatest of pleasures if you know where to touch.”. Curiosity gets the better of you as you lightly trace your fingers along your neck and collarbone, the feeling creating goosebumps. Without even realizing, you start imagining Ragnar’s hand as yours travels lower. You grab onto your breast before your hand continues down. Your fingers tease at the hem of your pants before slowly moving down into them. You lightly touch the sensitive skin and it sends a jolt through you making you gasp louder than intended. You hear Ragnar stir in the next room and you quickly pull your hand from your pants as you look to him, still asleep. You sigh and try to get comfortable to sleep. Everything that has happened within the last few days has left you so lost and confused. You have been praying to god every day but nothing changes, nothing reassures you and what you are supposed to do in this place. Your mind continues to race until sleep eventually pulls you under.

**********

“I would like to go into the mountain to pray.” You say to Ragnar.

“Why? So you can run away?” He gives you a teasing scoff.

You can’t hide the small laugh that escapes your lips.

“You know I would not make it very far without you.” You roll your eyes at him. “Besides, I need you to show me the way.”

“Alright then… perhaps tomorrow.” He shrugs.

“No, today.” You push. “Right now… please.”

You were desperate to have a moment of solitude and a private moment speak to god.

“Very well, we should go now while the sun is still high.” Ragnar says as he heads towards the door, you stand and follow after him.

He leads you up the hills of the forest until you reach a clearing facing the water. The stunning view took your breath away.

“I… I need to be alone.” You say to Ragnar.

“Do not try to escape.” He winks at you. “I will be just down this hill when you are done.”

You give him a grateful smile and you watch him walk away until he is out of sight. Turning back to face the edge of the cliff, you close your eyes take a deep breath as you feel the breeze brush across your face. You crouch to the ground onto your knees and bring your hands together in prayer.

“Heavenly father… Please help me to find my path. I feel so lost in this unfamiliar world and do not know what I am to do next or who I am meant to be now… And I feel… as if my prayers to protect and watch over me have gone unanswered, especially when I was taken by these people.” You pray with tears coming to your eyes. “Please god, if you are there, if you are watching over me… if you are real… please send me a sign.”

You open your eyes and watch for any sort of sign that your god is with you. Nothing happens.

“Please, give me any sign so I know you are watching over me as I have always believed.”

You wait again, and wait, and wait. The world was still, not even a stronger gust of wind to show a possible sign from god.

You drop your hands into your lap in defeat. Tears begin to roll down your cheeks until an idea crosses your mind. You breathe out a laugh to yourself feeling a bit silly for what you were about to try. You bring your hands back together but instead have a strange urge to connect to the earth. You bow, reaching your hands forward into the ground, feeling the dirt and grass between your fingers.

“Odin…” You close your eyes and begin, whispering so quietly it’s nearly silent. “Freyja… Thor… Please hear me. Hear my prayers. Help me, guide me, to who I am supposed to be now… what I am supposed to do.”

Suddenly, a raven lets out a loud ‘caw’ startling you. Your head shoots up and you look to the bird watching you from a rock to your side. Your heart races and your eyes go wide as you watch each other. A tickle on your hand makes you look down to see a white butterfly that landed on you. You lift your hand to admire it and it flies around your head before flying away, at the same time the raven flies off with it.

As your brain tries to comprehend the unmistakeable signs that the pagan gods are answering your prayers, you hear a rumble of thunder. The skies turn grey within a matter of seconds before rain suddenly begins to pour down. You stand and let out a laugh of disbelief as you spread your arms wide and look to the sky as you let out a heavy breath of relief. The rain washed over your entire being, cleansing you of your troubles. It felt like a different kind of baptism, a rebirth.

“(y/n)?” You hear Ragnar call from behind you.

You turn to him with a wide smile on your face. He noted how beautiful you were when you smiled like that, he realized he had never seen more than a faint one cross your lips.

“Are you alright?” He smiles back at you. “We should head back. Thor’s wrath may become brutal soon if we remain all the way out here.”

“No, he is speaking to me.” You smile, making Ragnar’s brows furrow in confusion.

“Your gods… the gods…” You continue. “They answered my prayers…”

“So, suddenly you believe in our gods now?” He teases. “And what of your god?”

“The Christian god has never answered my prayers. Never even given a small sign he is with me.” You explain. “I prayed to Odin, and a raven appeared… Freyja, a white butterfly landed on my hand the same moment… and Thor…” You gesture to the skies the rain continues to pour down from.

You walk closer to Ragnar.

“I want to teach me your ways…” You say lowly.

“All of our ways?” He smirks, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“All of your ways…” You say as you move even closer until your noses brush.

He traces his finger up your neck, making you shiver. His finger continues to move along your jaw before he gently lifts your chin, making your eyes meet his piercing blue ones. “Are you sure about that?” He says with his classic devilish smirk.

Instead of responding you bring your lips to his, which was answer enough. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss you back hungrily, a small growl escaping him. He cups your cheeks as the rain pours down on you both, the kiss is wet and passionate. His tongue demands entrance to your mouth and you let him take the lead, following along a little awkwardly. His hands move from your face down to your hips as he pulls you against him. The hardness pushing against your stomach makes you gasp.

“Do you wish to return to the house…” Ragnar whispers, against your lips before kissing you again.

“No… I want you to take me right here… under the eyes of Thor and all the gods watching over us…” You whisper back, bringing your hand to his cheek.

Your words light a fire in Ragnar as your eyes meet in an intense gaze. He reaches out and begins to slowly pull at the strings of your dress. His eyes watch yours carefully, as if daring you to stop him. You would do no such thing. Once the ties were loose you let him pull the dress off your shoulders, completely exposing your breasts. They instantly perk up in the cold chill of the rain, droplets of water falling down your skin. A moan escapes you as he leans down and takes one in his mouth, flicking his tongue over your sensitive nipple. Your entire body felt aflame. You welcomed every cold raindrop that touches your heated skin.

His sinful tongue continues to explore down your stomach until he’s on his knees in front of you. You look down at him with lust filled eyes as pulls down the skirts of your dress, leaving you completely bare for him. His gaze meets yours as he squeezes your thighs hard and gives you a smirk.

“Ragnar what are you-“

Your words are cut off when his tongue licks your most intimate area. You gasp and whine as he begins to messily eat you. Your legs shake and wobble as you try to hold onto his shoulders.

“Ragnar I can’t…” You breathe.

He could sense you were barely able to hold yourself up. In one swift movement he hooks your legs over his shoulders and you yelp as he lifts you up. His tongue does not stop working at your bundle of nerves as he walks you over to a tree. You lean your back against the rough bark. The feeling of him was so overwhelming that you hardly felt the tree scratching at your skin. He ate you ravenously like a man starved. Your hands quickly find their way into his hair, tugging lightly, he grunts against you in response. You pant as you look up to the grey rainy skies, the entire moment felt like a dream. A knot begins to tighten in your stomach and your vision starts to blur. Ragnar dips his tongue into your entrance and that is your undoing. You scream out as your thighs squeeze tightly around his head. You would be worried about hurting him but you could swear you felt him grinning against you as his tongue works you through your orgasm.

Ragnar carefully lowers you back to the ground, you feel both your body and your mind come back down to earth. You shiver as he lays you down on the cold wet ground. He removes his now soaked shirt before climbing over you and capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, you moan at the taste yourself as your tongues dance together.

He stands again to quickly remove his pants, your eyes widen at his length before he climbs back on top of you.

“Are you certain?” Ragnar asks lowly, noticing your worried expression.

“Yes but… I don’t think it will fit…” You whisper shyly.

He gives a cocky chuckle before he begins kissing on your neck.

“It will.” He mumbles against your skin.

You feel him rub his length against your core making you whine and buck your hips in response.

“So eager.” He smirks.

He slowly begins pushing in making you grimace in pain. You instantly question his reassurance that it will fit.

“Shh,” Ragnar tries to soothe you.

His lips move back to your neck kissing, sucking and biting, trying his best to distract you from the pain. You moan at the feeling before he pushes right through the barrier and you gasp loudly. Ragnar groans loudly as he feels you squeezing tightly around him like a vice. You pant heavily with tears in your eyes as you adjust to his size. He does not move until you’re ready, then he starts pushing in and out slowly. The pain soon fades and you wrap your legs around him, forcing him deeper into you.

“Please…” You breathe out.

“Please what?” Ragnar whispers directly in your ear, making you shudder.

“More…”

“More what?” He teases you.

“Ragnar, please.” You groan in frustration. “Faster. Harder. Give me more.”

He smirks before finally obliging your wishes and starts pounding into you relentlessly. You quickly begin to see stars as your second orgasm washes over you and you cry out his name. Ragnar slows his pace once you have hit your peak.

“So this is…” You pant. “This is how Vikings… fuck?”

“We fuck however we want to.” He says as he kisses your neck, still hard inside you. “Viking women enjoy riding their men like wild horses.” He mumbles against your skin, like a challenge.

“Then I shall do that…” You say as you sit up and force Ragnar onto his back.

Ragnar’s eyes widen as you move to straddle him.

“I shall ride you like a wild horse.” You look down and meet his eyes, fire in your eyes and a devilish smirk on your lips. “I shall fuck you like a true Viking woman.”

He does not take his eyes off you for one second as you start to sink back down onto his cock, causing your mouth to drop at the feeling. Being new to all of this, you awkwardly try to bounce up and down until Ragnar grips your hips and guides you to move them back and forth.

“Oh…” You moan, eyes rolling back.

You follow his direction and rock your hips back and forth, increasing the speed. The position sends tingles through your entire body. Ragnar watches you in amazement, taking in every inch of your wet naked body as your beautiful moans ring in his ears. His hands move from your hips to grab your breasts and you ride him harder in approval, earning a groan from him.

You still felt like you were dreaming. You had lived such a strict sheltered life and felt so trapped for so long… But as the grey clouds swirl above you and the rain pours down over your shamelessly naked body, as you ride this god of a man who made your entire body vibrate with life, as you cried out loud enough for the gods to hear, as your prayers had finally been answered and your path now clear, as you feel your very souls connect. For the first time in your entire life… you felt free.

Your peak hits you even more intense than any time before, zings of pleasure radiate throughout your entire being. You felt yourself cry out Ragnar’s name but the sudden crack of lightning in the distance completely drowned out the sound. Your eyes shot open and you caught a glimpse of the fast line of lighting across the mountains at the same moment you came. Ragnar digs his fingers hard into your hips as he finds his own release. A loud rumble of thunder booms as he chokes out a moan. In that moment you felt so tremendously powerful, like a you were a god and goddess.

As you come down from your high the rain suddenly becomes much lighter. Panting, you look down at Ragnar who’s grinning smugly up at you. You give him a smirk back before leaning down and capturing his lips in a hungy kiss, your tongue instantly demands entrance and Ragnar happily obliges, moving his hand to your cheek as he eagerly kisses you back.

You roll off of him onto the wet grass, the rain now stopping completely. You felt so wild and free you that had no care about the mud that had gotten all over you.

“So…” Ragnar huffs, still catching his breath. “You really believe in our gods now?”

“They answered my prayers…” You respond, also panting. “It is hard to deny their existence after all of that.”

Ragnar just grins at you.

“We should get cleaned up.” He says as he stands, lending a hand to help you up.

As you stand he pulls you into a quick passionate kiss.

“Welcome to my world, (y/n).” Ragnar smiles.