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.
