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"It's one baby step then another!"
Ragnar was a lot of things.
An ice skater was not one of them. He's a man that likes his feet firmly planted beneath him. A surprise, one or two, was welcomed. Not so much this. He had easily fallen over on the cold, hard icy surface not once or twice– but three times. If any of his sons could see him now, especially Ivar, he would not hear the end of it.
"C'mon Papi, you can do it." You giggle, skating circles around him on this frozen pond hell. He glances to you as you swivel about him, tickling his beard with your manicured finger. He glances down to your finger, holding himself up with his hands balancing him. It's almost cute to see him so vulnerable for a change.
"What if Papi doesn't want to do it, hm?" He responds, almost mocking your affectionate pet name for him. You stretch your fingers out towards him, beckoning him to come a little closer with eager digits. In no way does his ass want to either. He rather stand there until you're done skating circles around him in your white, fluttering dress top.
"Pleasssse." You whine. His sweet, beautiful girl would whine until his cows came home. Ragnar sighs while bringing his hands up behind his head. If he didn't do this, he wouldn't hear the end of it. At the very least there were no others here. Then exhaling a forceful breath, his hands leave his bound braid to stretch out towards you.
"Don't let me fall." He says. You swish over, grabbing his short, thick fingers in your own. Little by little you urge him to move forward. His brilliant blue eyes garner a wide quality, contrasting against your warm brown skin. Despite the ravens that always crouch on the gate, Ragnar's tired eyes begin to glisten as he runs his blades across the ice.
"You're not falling at all!" You let go of his fingertips, shocking the older man enough to stumble forward into you in a flutter of your dark hair. This time, he swivels about to drag you down into the harsh ice on top of him. With a harsh crack, you hear him groan irritably. The mind was usually more tired than his body– but this time, it was his body that was crying out with the pulse of his tattooed head. He pops one placid eye open to look at you.
"You let me go."
He did say not to.
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