(m) the lightning we generate without restraints

@Thistle Cloud <3

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Follow Thistle’s Rite Of Passage Ragnar had slept for two days and nights, plagued by ravaging fever and dreams. Endless dreams. What the Viking had attested to his God taking possession of his body was really just side effects from the mushrooms he had collected and carried back to his private and what he thought was well hidden cache of them in the chance that he should need them. Ragnar had understood their addictive properties, had watched his comrades become hooked on the blood frenzy that the substance within them put them into, but Ragnar was lucky in that he did not know of, or feel the addiction. Ragnar did not need them, and only sought them because he needed to be prepared.

He dreamt of many things, only two of them rotating in some type of subconscious carousel, vivid even as they began to bleed into one another while the others were forgotten as soon as he saw them flashing in his minds’ eye. He dreamed of Odinn and separately of Thistle, both dreams having an entirely different feel to them than the other. Ragnar dreamed of Thistle, intense and passion filled, each time more pleasurable than the last as he claimed his tiny Viking until the rapture would blaze until it would merge and cut off as a different, measurably less significant dream. Of Odinn Ragnar dreamed of his possession again, or maybe just a piece of the Allfather that resided within him, the heavy feeling of the God’s power and knowledge, the endless thirst that Ragnar felt himself without the Allfather’s intervention. You gave your eye for knowledge, Odin, but I would give much more… Dream Ragnar told the Allfather brazenly, trying to appease the God, trying to show him that he was worthy, that they were similar.

As he dreamed of the Allfather currently, he could feel the empty hollow of Odinn’s eye socket, feel the flames that licked in it’s crevice. It burned hot, licking up to Ragnar’s face until soon the flame spread and consumed him.

Slowly, tortuously, Ragnar burned.

He woke then with a jolt, jerking awake, his pants heavy from his body attempting to cool itself off, his icy, Caribbean blue eyes glassed with the fever that still commanded him. If Ragnar were a human he would have been entirely soaked with sweat. His head throbbed in pain from the intensity of the fever, the echoes of Odinn’s flame burning his flesh still felt even as he stretched stiff and aching muscles to exit the den, wondering if he threw himself unceremoniously into the sea if it would work as a coolant.

Two Days for two days Thistle had been watching and waiting and worrying over her husband. He had been sleeping in a delirious state and she knew it was from those stinking mushrooms he had hidden. He thought she didn't know but the little healer could smell herbs like there was no tomorrow and he held the distinct taint of fungus on his fur and breath especially after the bear attack.

Occasionally she would hear words on his lips but as unfortunes would have it she could not understand the language he spoke. She kept cool water near him to splash him she could not get any herbs down his throat so she had to let the fire burn it's way out or wait until he woke up. She had steeped some of them in water hoping that at least a little would get into him that way, but she was not confident in that regard.

She tried not to lay to near him for fear in his movements he would hurt her, or she would make his fever worse with her own body heat so she stayed away just watching.

Thistle gasped as he woke up Ragnar. She peered at him and saw the glassy rims of his eyes and sighed, but at least he was awake. She pushed jopi weed near him and tried her best to soothe him Ragnar you need to eat that. She continued closer but staying a little ways away knowing that he could go mad with god knows what in his delirium and she did not wish to be on the receiving end of that.

As a general warning a bit of Ragnar's threads might have mature content. On second thought, went ahead and marked it (m) just because Ragnar's ehm, not in control of himself, lol.

Ragnar was unaware of his wife’s care in his slumber created both by the lack of energy Odinn’s possession had left him with and the temperament of the fever that burned him now. In truth, it was not that surprising and should have been expected because it was Thistle. That was what she did. As it stood, he was unaware, and to Ragnar, it had nothing to do with the mushrooms and everything to do with the merging of Odinn’s wraith form and power into Ragnar and the fact that the Allfather left something, some small piece of himself within his descendant. It was pointless to even bother arguing with the Viking because he was so certain of it - though he had always been entirely devoted to his faith - that any attempts at making him see what ever so called reality anyone else lived in (i.e. the absence of Ragnar’s Gods) would end up dealing with a very aggressive Viking. He didn’t care about anyone elses’ Gods, didn’t care what they believed as long as they didn’t try to force their beliefs (as contrasting as they were) down Ragnar’s throat as if he were supposed to swallow it with a smile. Oh, he would smile, but it would be a smile befit of an Angel of Death just before he delivered it. Death, that is.

There was a gasp from somewhere nearby, nearly missed by a narrow margin between heavy pants as Ragnar nearly clawed his way out of the den feeling like he might actually combust into flames if he stayed within it’s infernal confines for any second longer. His name, perhaps a relieved sound, left the lips of his golden angel but Ragnar barely acknowledged her as he broke free into the open, the air cool as it kissed at his feverishly hot skin beneath the irritating amount of fur he had. Glassy, half unfocused eyes glimpsed down at whatever plant-like substance Thistle had pushed towards him. For a second he stared at with quiet contemplation unsure of why she was giving him it. He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it. This was not some simple fever she could whisk away with her flowers. No, it was a rapturous kind of fire that burned through him, the remains of Odinn’s power and knowledge and soul even if it was a small sliver that lived in, now, within Ragnar’s own. His body was weak, his mouth dry, his muscles aching; besides the other ache he felt at the admittedly erotic dreams he had of his wife, likely a manifestation of the tempting scent she had began to give off a few days prior, horrendously similar to the scent of her heat season. In his dreams, she hadn’t been heavily pregnant with child but he didn’t care.

“That is not what I want,” He refused her treatment and instead locked his glassy gaze upon her, a hunger brewing in their brightened depths a combination of carnal desire and the lust and love he felt for her. He gave an excited, breathless sort of laugh, cocking his head to the side as he moved to circle her, avoiding touching her until he neared her rear, nipping teasingly at the darkened fur of her spine near her close to her tail bone, with intentions of working his way to more intimate areas not bothering to consider that her reaction had the potential to be very unkind to him.

NO problem it should be fun :D

Thistle had barely gotten out of her way before her husband was up and trying to claw his way out of the birthing den. She grumbled to herself she was going to have to fix the claw marks in the ground. She followed him rather ungainly from the den her eyes growing accustomed to the bright light versus the dimmer light of the den as she studied him.

Thistle cloud glared at him and said quietly "You may not want that but you do need that and you will take it Ragnar Loðbrók. Her fur rose at the light in his eyes and though she admittedly under different circumstances would have reveled in it and let him have what he wanted this was not the correct circumstances and she was not going to allow it.

She turned quickly away a small growl escaping but gently as she could make it. She did not wish him to think she was rejecting him because she didn't want him. It was a matter of fact that she was far to pregnant even if he wouldn't hurt the babies and her he could potentially force her labor to start earlier than was wanted. As much as I like that Ragnar you will not be getting lucky today. You could hurt me or the babies and you are not in your own mind. I'd rather see you looking out at me through your eyes than your God. That was the only way she knew how to get him to listen.

I feel bad for Thistle because I feel it's always worse when he's delirious with a fever. lmao. I keep snickering at Ragnar, he makes me laugh (and admittedly at times blush ahaha)

Ragnar at by and large ignored Thistle’s glare and quiet command as if, humorously enough, she actually expected him to listen. By the laws of marriage she was his equal, and in all ways he generally saw her as such, but he was still her husband and a man besides and there would always be a small part of him that wanted her to cease her with demands (he only seemed to mind them when he was ill or injured really). He wasn’t going to be chided by her as if she were his mother (thankfully she wasn’t). “I do not need it,” He told her simply, dismissively, a challenging, coy little smirk tugging at the edges of his lips as he silent invited her to make him eat those foul plants. He had not forgotten their bitter taste from the last time she had convinced him to consume them. It tasted worse that decaying meat - which was pretty damn foul to begin with. “My love…” He called to her in a condescending tone was teasing, enjoying her silly little commands that he had no intention of submitting to.

The abruptness with which she turned her body away from him, twisting it just out of his reach caused the Viking to stumble slightly, having pressed his chest to her backside for slightly assistance in balance. Ears slicked back to his skull when she growled at his advances. Blatantly, the Viking ignored it and ghosted forward again, wanting his wife that was his right as her husband. “Thistle,” Ragnar purled at her sauntering towards her as stealthily as he could, a small whine of desire slipping from betwixt his lips. “I want your body,” The Viking spoke the obvious in his heavy, accented voice. “Let me worship you.” He purred in a voice that almost border-lined a plea, but he saw her chase as a game. He wasn’t the kind of man that gave up easily, as she full well knew. “Every inch of your gorgeous body,” The fact of it was he wanted to kiss her everywhere, (literally everywhere) and ravish her. So lost was Ragnar in that moment, in his fever, and in his carnal desire for Thistle that the children in her womb had nearly been forgotten about. “I would not hurt them, or you. There would be only rapture, gaman,” He promised coyly, as he slyly slid back around to her back side for a second attempt, this time placing sultry kissed along the curve of her spine, down towards her tailbone within his limited reach, attempting to win her over as he slowly began to work his way to her most intimate region with his kisses (providing she did not move again) where the hormones that was along with his delirium fueling the fire in his loins was secreting from.

Thistle glared at him "Oh Yes you do need it. She was unsure what to do he was sick so she could easily overpower him perhaps. She was however loathe to do that, for she did not want his instincts to war and have him hurt her acciddently, but she was almost out of options.

As much as she secretly wanted him to quench the fires he had started with his sultry kisses she was too far along to allow him and herself that pleasure admittedly. She was not afraid so much that he would hurt her or them, but rather she was more afraid that it would cause her to go into labor which would cause it's own host of problems.

So she turned again only this time she turned with coy smile and gently threw her paws around his neck and tugged at his ear and his neck while subtly applying pressure to him until she was certain her weight and his own would cause them to take a tumble. she hoped to get him to the ground and keep him there long enough to force him to take the weed that he hated, and did taste nasty of course but he needed to get rid of the delirium that threatened to overtake him completely lest he do something he would regret.

“I do not want it,” He repeated when she argued rather infuriatingly back to him, insisting with yet another glare that he needed it. He did not need her flowers, only her. He was fine. As shudder of heat and chill shivered along the strong curve of his spine, Ragnar mentally corrected his own contradiction. Okay. Maybe fine wasn’t the right word but he would endure and burn it off. It was not a big deal, giving Ragnar the feeling that her concern was borne of the females’ fussing instincts. His body only had to adjust to whatever sliver of whatever Odinn had left behind when he had released Ragnar’s body from his control. There was a small part of Ragnar, some teeny tiny still logical part that wondered in a weak whisper why he did not just explain it to Thistle, that argued if he could make her see then she would not force that gods awful shit down his throat that she called medicine. He glimpsed at the abandoned Jopi Weeds with unbidden disdain, lip curling back in disgust as another shiver wracked through his body violently. “This is not an illness your flowers can take away, Thistle,” Ragnar told her giving his head a shake before he returned to his assault of sultry and carnal kisses along different parts of her body. “Odinn gave me a small part of him when he possessed my body, my body has to adjust.” He was not so sure Thistle was going to believe him but the quickly fizzing rational side of him had given the thought that it had been worth a shot, worth an attempt to make her understand that he had been blessed by the Allfather, that a small sliver of the God now lived within Ragnar.

His trail of seductive kisses was cut short, yet again as she twisted away from him. Instinctively he moved immediately to ghost her movements, only to stop in confusion when she turned to face him, a coy smile to rival his own. “Heh,” The excited noise half of a smug laugh escaped the Viking as Thistle wrapped her paws around his neck, her teeth tugging at his ear and then at his neck, his strength, no where near what it normally was giving out as they tumbled to the earth their fur meshed as a melding of the moon and the sun despite how ungraceful the Viking had went down to the earth. He grunted from the impact of his body against the hard, unforgiving earth, confused for a moment as to how he got down upon the ground with her lingering over him. “Why love,” He beckoned her coyly, still sure that they were playing his game of seduction - one that he quite confidently intended to win.

I could have sworn i answered your ooc on my other replay bu I didn't lol sorry. Yes he is a blush worthy male, but that makes him all the more fun and those who follow and read this are probably like eh lmao.

Thistle sighed at his admission, of course it was odinn the allfather. He was beginning to ruffle her fur himself. Not that she would ever tell her mate that. Well that may be Rangar but you still need it you're fever is worse. Perhaps it is a side effect they say if one is not careful the gods can burn you up. So you need it at least to be safe. She had heard tales of how a God's true form could burn you to cinders if you were not careful perhaps possession was the same. Though she was unsure if it was not just a side effect of his blasted mushrooms.

She smiled as she put paw to his chest and near his throat and leaned down to whisper softly Because you need to take this root if I have to shove it down your unforgiving stubborn viking throat Ragnar Loðbrók and don't you forget. With hind paw she moved the root closer and with a small smile and perhaps a slight snarl she said quiet and deadly Now eat it. Blue eyes bored into his daring him to try and fight with her about it. She loved him and she would not let this raging delirium take him from her no matter how angry she made him she would persevere and perhaps just perhaps if he was good she would allow him to have what he wanted as long as he was kind about it. Because he would have to be so her labor did not become induced.

Ha, I'm having such a blast writing this thread I have to admit. It's fun to explore Ragnar without putting limitations upon him. I think he likes being insufferable to her on purpose. rofl. Also, I wasn't sure what exactly or the size of Jopi Weeds so I kind of just made it up in my mind but feel free to correct me! :3

Glassy eyes assessed the golden beauty that was his wife even when her paw was placed precariously on his chest near the slope and base of his throat. If she hoped to contain his mischievous behavior by the simple action she would be proven wrong. “My Gods are not those Gods,” Ragnar reminded her simply, writhing where he lie on his back, beneath the weight of her paw as she loomed over him like a some sort of avenging angel. Unlike the strange Gods Thistle spoke of, his Gods were not immortal as others claimed theirs to be. In fact, his Gods could and were destined to die - even Odinn himself. It would be during Ragnarök by the jaws of Fenrir, Ragnar could pinpoint it too. It was destruction just as much as it was a rebirth. The old would give away to the new. He stretched out a long leg to place his paw against her cheek in a surprisingly humanistic gesture of how a human man would cup the cheek of his lover for a few seconds before she leaned down to whisper close to his ear, giving him another tantalizing whiff of her hormonal secretions, until he swore he might literally die and go to Valhalla much too early if he did not give relief to his loins somehow.

Her threats and deadly tone caused a groan of desire to escape the Viking’s lips as he writhed beneath her paw again, lips curling back to expose his teeth in his waning patience before he grinned at her, slowly, lazily. “You eat it,” He rumbled into her ear, soft and heavily accented voice defiant as she drew the damned weeds nearer to him. Quickly, he let his head fall to the side, exposing the scarred half of his face to her, sucked in a breath and blew upon the loose weeds watching them drift away from him like green, thin blades of grass upon the wind. “My love…” The cunning, delirious Viking cooed into his wife and lover’s ear, almost unable to contain his anxiety to see what Thistle would do to him next and if she would, indeed, attempt to force them down his throat as she had threatened.

This lover’s war was their most exciting yet to Ragnar.

It is fun I like to see Thistle's reactions because even i don't know what she's going to do next lol.

Thistle huffed in annoyance her blue eyes flashing at him with irritation. "You are insufferable Ragnar! Now look what you did. She watched the herbs go partially away from her. She could not reach them now so she would not be able to shove them down his throat. The minute she got up he would follow and she would not be able to lure him to the ground again, he learned to quickly from her tricks.

So instead she put all her weight on him simply sitting down on his side and chest to keep him from moving to much while she contemplated on how to get the roots down his gullet. She was thinking hard, though her mate made it exceptionally hard to do so he and all his rugged handsomeness it was hard to deny him what he wanted.

These two. <3 ahaha.

There was no doubt in Ragnar’s mind, clouded with fever as it was, that he had successfully managed to annoy Thistle, if her huff and following words were of any indication upon that. Insufferable. What an extremely accurate term to describe her man child husband. In fact, it was not immaturity that spurred him to do it so much as it was his reigning curiosity as to what Thistle would do, if she would really try to force them down his throat as she promised in that deadly voice that had brought a smirk to his lips. It was a test, this game (though she already knew he was possibly the worst patient ever in the history of patients), even if it was crafted by his delirium to sate his curiosity to see just how far she would go for him, how much she loved him. The end result would probably let him with the deduction that he didn’t deserve her - and maybe, truly, he didn’t. His laugh was a coy and devilish sound, born of his delirium and the mirth this game gave of him even as she denied him what he wanted. If Ragnar had been thinking with any semblance of logicalness he would not have kept pressuring for what he wanted, but he wasn’t, exactly, in his right mind. He had given over to the fever and carnal desire, finding that he didn’t want to keep ignoring that tempting scent she was putting off, similar, nearly identical to the scent of her in her heat season despite that she was heavily pregnant.

He let out a soft grunt of surprise when she sat down on him then, pinning him - in a manner that left him feeling dissatisfied - helplessly to the ground. “Have you given up?” He asked her with another lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he peered up at her with one eye, pressing the back of his neck against the hard earth as he stared up at her, taunting her, knowing she didn’t want to gather back her scattered weeds having likely suspected that he would take the chance to gain an advantage on her; and he would have. As it was now she held the clear advantage but seemed also to have been corned by him.

I know right :P I <3 them

Thistle shifted her weight and cuffed him in the ear with her paw. Hush Ragnar I'm thinking. She had no clue how she could do this. She supposed she could get up and grab them and shove them unmercilessly down his throat. Though in truth he could bite her paw that fed him in a manner of speaking. She could give up which in her mind was not a real option and she refused to do it. She could be as stubborn as he when warranted. Or she could beg which didn't really sit well with her either. She was far to proud at times to admit defeat.

She sighed thinking hard and finally she got up and moved as swiftly as her small pregnant body would allow. All the while keeping her tail tucked tightly she was no fool she knew she was temping the devil, but she also knew he needed to take the bitter herbs he didn't like. She grabbed them up and turned to face him contemplating what she could do to get him at her mercy again.

Ragnar snickered from beneath her when she cuffed him in the ear with her paw, a quick strike like a cobra’s. It didn’t necessarily hurt but his ear flicked in response rapidly a few times, nevertheless. It was fun to toy with her, fun to push her to see how far she would go before she’d finally had enough of him or until she gave into him and gave him what he was after. Preferably the second option if he had any say in the situation. As it was, he infuriatingly thought that he didn’t but he would try, anyway. If just to keep the game afoot. Ragnar was unsure as he watched her if her sigh came from her thoughts or the fact that he was probably frustrating her beyond her limitations and then found, with another lazy smirk that he didn’t care. She was amusing to watch, with her brow furrowed in her concentration. Thistle moved them, her body releasing his as she shuffled after her scattered weeds and quickly he pushed himself to his paws, shaking the dirt off his coat as he studied her stance, her tail tucked securely between her legs. He let out a frustrated breath himself, knowing that unless she moved her tail (though he could try to coax her into moving it for him) he wasn’t getting anywhere.

Women were so infuriating.

He leveled a stare at her as she turned to face him, the weeds gathered in her mouth, his refusal clear on his face. She would have to try to outwit him again, though her last tricks would not work again upon him. Figuring he now held the advantage he simply smirked at her again.

Thistle flicked an ear back unsure what she could do to make him take the blasted herbs. She lowered her eyes flicking her tail once in irritation. She could maybe charm him into doing what she wanted. Or she could offer up a compromise. He would probably take the compromise easier and besides it wasn't like it would really work the minute he took the plant he'd be tired again, though even if he wasn't there was no reason for her to back out, but he had to be kind.

She shifted and spoke over a mouthful of herbs"Okay Ragnar you take these you may have what you want, but only if you are kind and easy because i am not about to have these pups early because you get out of control. Or I can just shove them down your gullet like i originally planned i'll just have to figure out how.

He watched her tail move away from between her thighs to flick in her irritation at him, and for a second he thought about taking advantage of that singular moment. He could take what he wanted, by force but he had never been the type of man to do that. He preferred consent, and so long as she did not give it to him he was left feeling like some otherworldly, invisible force was holding him back. Her compromise was made to him and for a moment Ragnar was silent, contemplating it. In a moment of clear conscious he realized that she was right. He could induce early labor and any complications that followed would inherently be his fault. He did not want that kind of blame placed upon him despite his willingness to have placed the blame on Dagmar when her body had aborted their litter. Surely, his desire was not too great that he could not hold out for a few more weeks and if it was there were other ways (not cheating ways, mind, just ways in general) that he could relieve it. He hated admitting that she was right and that he did not want to be the cause of an early birth and complications that would surely result from it. Besides that he did not have the strength or energy to make love to her, anyway, even if there were no other motivational points for him not too.

After a few moments he let out a sigh of surrender and moved forth to tug the weeds lightly from her lips with his own and made a show of wrinkling his nose and letting out a noise of disgust as he chewed and swallowed the weeds. He was tired again, suddenly, anyway. Dragging his tongue (after ensuring he had eaten all of her damned weeds) across her muzzle, over her eye and over the velveteen fur of her ear he murmured in a husky undertone to his soft, heavily accented voice, “Maybe later.” On the terms of any love making though he was unsure for how many more days he might be asleep for. Deep breath was taken as he lowered himself into a sphinx like position before her and draped his head across his front paws, letting his eyelids slide closed in the imitation of sleep.

Thistle allowed a small grin of triumph grace her face and she returned his lick with a nuzzle of her own. She watched as he became heavily tired, which she had known he would she was not a fool. She had made a compromise knowing he would not take it and even if would the plants would make him too tired to anyway.

She settled down beside her and curled up against his side gently and hesitantly. His fever was still there though she was certain at least for now it wasn't as violent as it could be. So she felt relatively safe being in this close proximity that he would not lash out in fever induced sleep and hurt her. She decided she needed a nap too anyways she was very tired.

Fade*

This post was a really cute image in my mind.

Initially, Ragnar had not been asleep, despite that his eyes were closed and his breathing was no longer labored but peaceful, calm. Though his heavy eyelids stole his sight he could feel Thistle settle down and curl up against him where he had more or less plopped onto the earth in a rather ungraceful sort of collapse, not wanting her to know that his legs felt weak again. He could not show weakness to her, if only because it was in his blood. He was the husband, the protector - and there was no room for illness or injury in those duties. Ragnar reclined upon his side then, shifting his position as he stretched and sort of curled around her in turn, peeking his eyes open to groom her cheek with a few strokes of his tongue against the silken fur he found there before he nuzzled his muzzle beneath hers, similar to the way a human might rest his head against his lovers chest to sleep just to feel the certain intimacy it required to sleep in each other’s arms - just holding one another.

It was only then that the Viking’s breaths became slow and even as he finally fell back under the spell of slumber.