Soft hair under Ragnar’s fingers, covering softer skin. A tremble of damp lips against his fingertips, eager for his touch. That sensitive spot behind the ear; those dark lashes, long and luxurious.
Legs strain and struggle against his, whether to draw closer or pull away, he can’t quite tell.
“It’s alright,” Ragnar murmurs soothingly. “I’ve got you.”
Wide dark eyes meet his, full of trust and the fiercest, most unconditional love he’s ever known.
Across the room, Aslaug frowns, watching her husband fondle yet another goat. “He’s… not quite right sometimes, is he?”
Lagertha snorts. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”