There was a part of Ragnar that reveled in the lack of stress that came along with stepping down from Jarl, though he largely operated outside of his pack's own hierarchy, as he had warned Thistle he would. Ragnar Lodbrok would not show submission to the wolves he had once led, nor any of the new ones regardless if they were of a higher rank than himself. He took liberties as the once Jarl and the Patriarch of Stavanger Bay. He kept the borders free of those that would trespass and spent large quantities of time hunting by himself, keeping the caches well kept after. Though Thistle had stated to him, several times, that she had never wished to be a sole leader, that she'd never had the desire to lead in the first place it was fun watching his Queen wife adjust to her role with nothing short of grace and the fire and fury of a true Shield-maiden. Ragnar's pride in Thistle's accomplishments swelled within his chest, and he enjoyed watching her grow into the woman he had always known she was, even when he'd first met her, young and innocent as she'd been. Whether she saw it or not, since agreeing to be his wife she had changed. She'd taken to the Viking ways like a fish took to water, which was likely, largely at Ragnar's own influence.

Ragnar stirred from a half sleep, blinking his singular eye, before shutting it as he yawned and peeked it open slowly, squinting against the sunlight that filtered in through the den he shared with his Queen wife. He stretched as much as the enclosed space might allow him, black leathery nostrils flaring as the enticing scent that had roused him from his deep slumber slowly began to register in his awakening mind. He would have slept longer if not for the intoxicating scent that was suddenly flooding his senses until he could think of nothing else. It awoke a deep hunger within the scarred Northman, but not one that any food could sate.

The last time he'd been around a woman in heat it'd been Nerian and it had taken every ounce of self restraint he had not to take her, especially when she'd rubbed herself against him, mixing their scents until Ragnar had trouble telling where his ended and hers began. Somehow Ragnar had resisted; but this time...this time he did not have to deny himself anything. He left the den and loped after the trail, following it easily to her meadow, where she'd said was one of the places she would be secluding herself too during her heat cycle. This year it would be his seed that took, it would be his children that grew within her swelling womb no questions, and now that she had gone into it Ragnar had no intentions of leaving her, or letting anyone else near her, especially since Stavanger Bay was largely populated by males. If anyone other man dared to come near her, the exception being their son, of course, Ragnar would literally tear into them. He would attack them, members or not, without questions or any provocation beyond that. Thistle was his, the sweet perfume that was slowly beginning to drive him mad as his skin flushed with his desire for her, was for him only, and he did not intend to waver from that.

Though Ragnar was initially perplexed when he approached Thistle's favored clearing to find his Queen wife digging what appeared to be furiously in the dirt — for what purpose he did not know — he let it go for the sake of much more important things taken the precedent of his mind. She had turned, taken with surprise at his approach, the snarl that had briefly been upon her face though no sound had spilled forth from her before it had registered that it was only he. Ragnar did not bother to hide the smirk that tugged at the edges of his lips, coy and sly as he studied her heavily with his singular eye. Until she had realized that it was him, Ragnar might have went so far as to say she looked like she intended to murder, which pleased the Jarl Northman immensely. It meant that she would allow no other near her, though Ragnar, himself, had no intentions of letting anyone else near her, either. “Thistle,” The Viking purled her name, ghosting forward a step as her tail wagged, fanning her scent , already overpowering, even more, luring him closer without much (if any) resistance from Ragnar.

Her tail ceased it's movement when, Ragnar assumed, she realized what she was doing but the Viking was half tempted to ask her not to stop. Her body was ready to conceive and it was screaming it at him. If Ragnar had believed in such things he might have said that she was like his personal siren and that he wanted nothing to plunge and drown in the depths of the darkened seas if it meant he could breach the distance and ensure that by the end of the day they had conceived children. Their children — children born of his seed and no one else's. The prospect filled his mind like an obsession, and given the hormones that were pouring out of his beloved made it harder still to ignore.

A guttural noise of yearning left the scarred Northman's lips as he drew nearer still, not stopping until his nose touched her cheek. His weight shifted uncomfortably at the impatience of his body and while the Viking was nothing short of a savage: savage leader, savage father, savage lover, he, at the same time, wanted to make sure that she wanted him as badly as he did her. Nerian had thrown herself at him as soon as she noticed him while Thistle had taken a, thus far, much more reserved demeanor and it was driving him mad. He trailed sultry kisses down her cheek, down to her throat where he nipped playfully, eager to move and slowly trailed the side of his body along hers as he made to circle her, rubbing their scents together with clear intention.

"It is time," He breathed pausing to press his nose against the outside of her thigh, inhaling deeply, another guttural noise rumbling contentedly and impatiently in his throat.

Ragnar supposed that heat seasons differed depending on the woman — Nerian had been little more than outright desperate whilst Thistle appeared to be more playful. The only problem was that Ragnar had no intentions of playing. Though his Queen Wife would be in heat for the next couple of days Ragnar did not want to lose any chance he got to stake his claim, he supposed. The hormones surging through her might have made her playful they drove him wild as the perfume consumed him, flooding every sense that Ragnar had until there was nothing else but the carnal desire. It should have been disturbing to him, how easily he was obsessed with it, with the idea of planting his seed and seeing her grow round with his children (known for sure this time), until there was nothing else. Nothing was more important to him in that moment — not the state of the Bay, not the borders, nothing.

There was a small part of Ragnar that knew if he was standing there comparing their heat seasons, fresh as they were, Thistle would have not been pleased; but thankfully she was not able to read his mind, despite that he was not thinking of Nerian for any purpose other than what it was: to study how different women reacted to it. Ragnar had meant what he'd told Thistle: Nerian was never welcome in the Bay again and though the Viking did not share this particular piece with his Queen Wife, he had came to terms with the conclusion that if he ever saw the Priestess again that he would kill her. Whatever he had felt for Nerian had died the instant she abandoned them and betrayed him. Lied to him; and now he felt nothing at all other than the desire to snuff out her life.

Ragnar tucked those thoughts away, however, in favor of the sultry haze that was overtaking him, in the presence of Thistle. He felt Thistle nip and lick the parts of her body that she could reach before he slid away from the reach of her muzzle, rounding to stop when he was behind her. The urge to mount her was strong, so close to the source of the delicious smell she was emitting, though it appeared to him to come from every pour of her body; though Ragnar resisted. Her tail remained in his way and he fixed the back of her head in his singular eye as he pressed his chest against her rump, nipping lightly at the junction where her tail met her spine, curious as if to she would continue to tease him or if she would allow him what he wanted (and what he suspected she wanted too?).

Thistle's growl as he placed distance between the heat of their bodies brought a slow, arrogant smirk to the Viking's lips, not caring if she saw it or not. It was the most obvious statement of her displeasure at the rush of cool air that had risen between the two of them. It kissed at his scars, at his empty eye socket bringing with it a sickeningly sweet feeling that he was quick to put down. Her growl had become muted the moment she felt his chest flush with her backside. He shifted his weight as he felt the force of her body as she pushed back against him, impatient, demanding; Ragnar loved it. For a moment, ignoring the low whine that left his Queen's lips as her tail moved aside for him, he simply admired her. She was beautiful to him, the potential that he had seen within her when he had first met her having finally came to it's full. She had reached and excelled her potential. She was a shieldmaiden true now, a Queen, and the mother of his children and Ragnar would not have it any other way. Even if his attention was fickle it was she that was the true love of his life and no one could question it. Something pretty might catch the Viking's eye, sure, but it was always Thistle that he would return to. It went beyond simply love; he adored her, worshiped her. There was no one in the world he trusted more. These things he could never convey with words, for the Northman was hardly the romantic type, and even if he did he felt she was inclined to disbelieve him.

Eye of caribbean blue took her in hungrily, then, his thoughts broken by the impatient shift of her weight. He had kept her waiting long enough.

FADE TO BLACK.