King Ragnar Imagines

Honey Pot [Floki x Helga x Ragnar]

The one last safe place for him in Kattegat was with Helga... and Floki.

He's always loved you.

It was no wonder why he came back. Perhaps he was disappointed that Floki would not see to be with him one last time, but it was expected. A lot of things were expected. His sons despising him– also expected.

"Are you tired Ragnar?" Helga softly spoke. He hadn't realized that yes– he was boring at the flickering flame so long that his eyes were blackening with shapes when he settled them back upon beautiful Helga.

"In the mind." He taps his temple, baring a worn and ragged smile. Floki comes to sit beside him, both looking at one another just so briefly. Helga tends to the fire smoldering in front of them. She bends just so that he might see her lovely yellow dress draping over the curve of her round ass. A thought strikes him, eyes creasing in exhaustion.

He groans as he stretches, deciding against his better judgement to speak to Floki. "How is it you shared Helga with Torstein, Floki?" He begins. Floki was always possessive of her– for good reason. "But never with your oldest friend?"

Helga shifts to stand silently. She wears that same flattered, but silent smile like she usually did. The sugary sweet one that always made Ragnar question if he took the wrong wife to begin with. Perhaps; but Floki needed her more than he ever did.

And to be fair, Ragnar made a terrible husband. Easily worse than Floki.

"Would your wives ever let you?" Floki's eyes glaze over his wife. Ragnar shifts his eyes back to Floki, knowing he spoke the truth. Lagertha– perhaps. Aslaug was usually seethingly jealous when they were on good terms. But all that had changed now.

"I suppose not. I suppose you're right to keep that honey pot to yourself." He tells his age old friend, watching on the other side of the flame as Helga takes out bread from a chest to warm. Ragnar pours out more of the mead he's brought into a chalice. Floki shifts on the edge of his seat, kneeling before Ragnar.

"But that can change now, can't it?" Floki asks.

"Are you inviting me..." Ragnar begins, looking over to Helga as her thick, kohl lined eyes widen just momentarily. She nods curtly to the two friends.

"Helga doesn't have a complaint." Floki turns his head, marked by tattoos. "And you could rest your mind before seeing the Christians."

Ragnar finishes his drink of mead as Helga rounds the fire, having abandoned her bread. One hand takes Floki's while the other shyly outstrethces, running across the scars on the side of Ragnar's face.

"To bed, Ragnar?" Helga asks. Ragnar leaves behind his mead and follows after his old friends. He had something much more honey sweet on his mind.