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,