(m) across the caucasus

He had spent the night previously with his body against the mouth of the den, protecting those inside so that if anything or anyone wanted in they would assertively have to go through the Viking to get there. Even so, he was not sure exactly where he was supposed to sleep given that his normal place against, interwoven with Thistle’s body by placing his head on her paws or curled around her was stolen by their children and Ragnar was afraid to get too close on the off chance that he accidentally squish them. They were so tiny, so delicate, perfect of course, but they seemed so vulnerable and breakable that he was almost intimidated by them. He shifted his weight, ears slicking back to stand at half mast atop his skull as he heard quiet shuffling around the den, his heart loud as tribal drums in his ears as he saw Thistle emerge and the moonlight touch her fawn colored fur and the Viking smiled at his Shield Maiden, breath stolen by her beauty as it always was.

He watched, apprehensive as his wife drew nearer to him, and closed his eyes against the onslaught of her trail of kisses down his jaw in a mimicry of Ragnar’s behavior. “Mmm,” The Viking moaned slightly, lowly, letting the sound rumble in his throat his breath coming out sharper than he intended at her nip, the feel of the teeth biting against his flesh, raking through the fur there. “Come,” He beckoned for her to follow as he turned from the den and moved a few feet away — still well within their sights and earshot but not so close as to disturb the babes slumbering inside even though they were deaf. “They are beautiful, perfect and tiny,” Ragnar murmured to her, having loved them when they were still growing within her womb. “Like you, my love —” He grinned at her then, “— my tiny Viking.” Though all of their babes were tiny Vikings in truth, Ragnar could not shed Thistle of her nickname given to her by him out of affection.