“You are almost not needed,” Ragnar reminded her with a coy grin. His wounds were scabs and were all but healed and Ragnar thought that if they were going to scar at all they would not be as noticeable as his other ones. Not that idea of adding more scars to his body bothered him in any semblance of manner — it didn’t. Scars were apart of his culture, a part of his life. “Do not worry, wife,” Ragnar murmured in what was supposed to be a reassuring tone. “They will not forget who has done the most for them and if they do I will be there to remind them,” While Ragnar had meant it to be reassuring to Thistle, to soothe her worries it had more or less came out as a threat. He did not know, truly, how to communicate to her that he was never allow anyone to dispose of her, that he would shield her and protect her regardless of what it meant, of what it cost him to do so. He was not afraid of death so in reality threatening him with it wasn’t an effective way to get him to back down. “Good.” He said firmly on the matter, for whatever it was worth glad that she had maybe even a tiny bit of faith in him.
Thistle was toying with him, Ragnar realized. For a moment, brief though it was, he had considered that maybe there had been some merit in her words; that it had been a feverish dream and nothing more. It certainly had possessed a dream like quality about it, the familiar feeling of being out of control of his own body, very similar to how he had felt when Odinn had possessed him. Even so he remembered the fire that had burned in his loins as he scented the hormones she had been giving off, very similar to the hormones females in heat gave off. The primal urge to claim and plant his seed had been strong. Absent of the hormones as she was now he could feel the embers of that fiery passion lick to life within him, seething beneath his skin. How long, Ragnar wondered, would she play temptress to him, how long would he let her before he could stand it no more? Would she deny him the intimacy of coupling (and if she did what would he do about it? He wouldn’t force himself on his wife, having never believed in it — though he had never stopped his kinsmen from doing it to the females captured, admittedly).
“I remember,” Was all he said on the matter of him being ‘confused’. He hadn’t been that confused not when her scent at the time had been like a smack in his face; a sore dose of reality. “Let me worship your body, my love,” He nearly pleaded, moving to nip at her spine eagerly.
