Thistle nipped at his scarred shoulder hard and he growled at lowly at her, imperious to the sharp, momentary pain in the ruined nerves around the permanent reminder of the landslide at Horizon Ridge. He was not a fan of her nipping at the scar and one day, if she insisted on doing it, he'd likely snap at her. His other shoulder was a different story, but he had drawn the up to her on his right side and it was that shoulder she had latched onto, her bite more vicious in her anger at him. It had been painful for a few seconds and Ragnar had known pain so much worse but he lashed his teeth furiously against the skin and through the fur of her scruff (not hard enough to break it yet), having drawn back so that it was easily in his grasp, tongue soothing over it to return the gesture of pain she had bestowed upon him. In a showmanship of rare patience he held still as she peppered his body with kisses and nips the fire slowly building in his abdomen, pooling like molten lava in his loins.
Eventually his Queen wife's ministrations came to a halt, glimpsing back at him, the azure flash of her irises caught through her lowered lashes. Such delicate, pretty things, but then again Ragnar had long since established that every part of Thistle's body was pretty. He wasted little time to move so that he stood behind her and when her tail moved to the side, tickling the fur of his chest, Ragnar paused to give the junction where her tail met her body, showing her a gesture Nerian had showed him, a nibble the scarred Scandinavian moved to make love to her.