Ivar the Boneless Imagines

Glass is an Ass

"This is taking too long." Sigurd brings his thick watch that sat on his willowy wrist up to his eye.

"Well FUCKASS if you hadn't pushed me, we wouldn't be here, would we?" Ivar hisses, resting on his side in a dark blue, hardly cushioned seat. The others in the room were staring at the brothers. A small girl that was giggling like a gremlin, an older man smirking at the sight of his wound.

"It's your fucking fault for not letting me call an ambulance. Don't be an ungrateful prick. ASSHOLE." Sigurd bites back, whipping out his phone to ignore Ivar, who was attempting to sit as still as stone on one hip on the chair. The staff at the front desk tends to a large line– but one delightfully chubby nurse calls out his name with a small clearing of her tongue.

"Ivar Ragnarsson!"

The brothers banter almost immediately. Ivar takes his crutches up and begins to get up when his older brother hooks his arms underneath Ivar's arms. It sets off the wildfire in Ivar's eyes immediately.

"I don't need help!" Ivar protests with his older brother dragging him across the fake, creamy tiles towards a great coffee coloured door. He ignores his little brother's wiggling.

"You have a glass in your ass. You're already a cripple, how are you going to walk, huh?" Sigurd snaps. "I hope they shoot you up with a tranquilizer, you bitch."

"Fuck you." Ivar goes limp in his brother's arms, stewing angrily when the nurse clears her throat with purpose. She stands there in cute, grey and black scrubs. The deep grey scrubs are slightly form fitting, with a black array of flowers against the edge of her top. She lifts his eyebrows upon her forehead, rather cutely around the braids that pull down over her breast.

"Do you want him to leave?" She says as she guides Sigurd into a room. She brings a station with a computer into the room and assists Sigurd in helping Ivar onto a hospital bed on his stomach. Like Ivar could tell Sigurd to go away. Ubbe was busy with his two sets of twins and Hvitserk had gone with Bjorn on a business trip. And well– he wasn't going to call his mother because he got a shard of glass in his ass.

"He can wait outside." Ivar grumbles. No complaints from his brother. Sigurd treds out to go raid the cafeteria instead. Behind him, Sigurd leaves what should have been a wave of awkwardness. After all they had been bickering the whole time. That was probably why the staff had pushed him into treatment quicker than some other patients.

Or maybe because he was bleeding on their less-than-expensive but needing to stay good for the next thirty year chairs. She pulls the station over, her black nonslip sneakers squeaking on the tile.

"May I have your date of birth?" She says softly.

"May 20th." Ivar mumbles the year begrudgingly after, turning his face from the opposite direction to look at her. She's still as stone, which, Ivar thinks is a bit too late for the smear of black across her lower eyelids.

"Very good, Mr. Ragnarsson." She stands up. "No lightheadedness, nausea, vomitting or–"

"Bleeding out the ass?" Ivar says sharply. "Because if so, yes."

But she doesn't laugh. The corners of her dark red painted lips pull into a slight quiver, but nothing else. She only lifts her heavy hooded eyes at him as if to demand he go on. They're shot with red tinging around normally white sclera.

"No. What is your name?" He asks the pretty girl. She was pretty– despite the obvious signs of disrepair. She goes to prepare something at a nearby station, sliding a white card with a picture that was far uglier than she was in person. She was pretty, did he say that already? All the pretty ones have this affect on him. He could go from raging to silent. In her hair, she has an adorably crystal bright clip of a tropical flower in white crystal.

"(Y/N)." She answers, setting items ontop of a tray. She comes over with freshly washed and gloved hands then proceeds to his side. Her fingers hook against the edge of his basketball shorts.

"I'm going to examine it now, is that okay?" She says softly.

"Sure, as long as you don't cry, mm?" Ivar looks over his shoulder to her hardened eyes. "But the doctor already did when we came in. The scruffy looking one with hazel eyes?"

He had been adamant, sneering up his aquiline nose at Ivar. It was nothing to be concerned about. It was just a little blood. He had the right nurse that would stitch him up picture perfect. No one would be able to tell that his dumbass brother had thrown him into glass when they were fighting– like usual.

"Okay." She says. Yet it sounds like a shake; like her whole world was about to collapse into a million bite sized pieces like the one that was embedded in his fine white ass. She draws his shorts down, the cool air over his curved ass tickles– but nothing like when she bent low against him. Drops of cool water slip over him and he quickly realizes that it isn't any sort of fluid to ward off infection of make his life easier.

"Are you okay?" Ivar asks stoically enough, thinking that maybe if he was as hard as she was; she might come forward with information. Instead she tries to will the tears away, beginning to take out slivers of glass from his ass.

"I'm okay. Really." She says.

"If that isn't a crock of shit, I don't know what is." He responds seconds later. He tries to keep himself from squirming as she does. "Besides, I'm the one getting glass picked out of my ass by a fucking bombshell of a nurse. You'd think I should be the one crying."

Her hands leave his butt for a moment when she giggles. A sickly sweet giggle, low and amused under her tongue. Bloody shards sit to the side of her on a snowy white napkin. She's plucked free nearly all of them; leaving his ass beating red and aching sore.

"Mr. Ragnarsson, has anyone ever told you how much you talk?" She asks, stifling the laugh that wants to break free.

He leers back at her. "My brothers." Ivar responds, pouting out his lip and bobbing his head slightly. "Not every day it happens. Or that I see something so pretty crying either. You gonna talk or you prefer to dig into my cheeks instead?"

With the last plucked free, she sets down her tool, walking herself on her rolling stool over to his face. "That would be something I could be reported for." She says as if she is about to trust him with some heavy knowledge.

"Trust me, I don't mean to keep coming to the hospital and have the other women pick at me. Did you see my choices? They're not good." He mocks, reaching out to tip up her chin with a thick knuckle. The laugh burst forward from (Y/N)'s lips and she suddenly gives into his wiles. Maybe, just maybe she trusted him.

"Wanna talk of your bitch ex over coffee?" He suggests.

"That would also be something I could be reported for." She sets her manicured hands to her lap, teasing the lavender nail polish on her fingers once pulling the old gloves free and chucking it into its proper disposal box.

"Not if I'm not your patient." Ivar grins cheekily. She rolls to the sink to wash and reglove to finish sanitizing his wound with the proper gels and bandages.

"You're still my patient right now." She says as she taped down the bandage. She hardly finishes when he takes the tape of her fingers to finish himself, then pulls his basketball shorts up over his ass.

"Not anymore." Ivar grunts, scooting toward the edge of the bed with his crutch and stubbornly off. Then, he looks back to her as he stands upright with his crutch. "When does your shift end?"

She swishes over to her computer station for a rosy sharpie, coming back and taking his thick forearm. Squeaking name and number across his skin, she smiles at him. "I get off at eight." She smiles. Eight it was. Ivar does his best strut out of that room, feeling like someone stabbed him in the ass... which quite literally had happened.

"All done?" Sigurd asks. Ivar flicks his wrist to his older brother.

"Now I am." He grins toothily, starting down the hall when Sigurd chases after him.

"...how?!" Sigurd snaps.

"Shut up and get me home quickly." Ivar remarks, looking straight down the hall to where a certain hazel eyed doctor met a blonde in a kiss. Ivar can't beat back the smile on his face. "I have a date at eight with a hot nurse."