Another night with you left him satisfied. He could lack for nothing, except perhaps, his sanity when you ask him such questtions.
"What do you think of them?"
There was a pause from underneath you where Hvitserk courses his digits over your stomach, drawing little lines across your skin. He honestly had no idea what you were talking about. Half the time he swore your mind took off without him. So of course, you went out on a limb of an idea again.
"What do I think of what?" He husks, shifting his hand around to your back, pulling you in against him despite laying on your side. Your fingers curl along the tattoos that litter his chest, propping your head up slightly.
"The marks." You say. He looks down as if to his tattoos, shrugging.
"I like them?" He suggests, laughing when you shove him with your hand. Hvitserk chuckles, hushing you to be quiet when you shrill out:
"Not yours, mine." You all but bark out, looking to the crib where your newly born daughter lays in her crib. Hvitserk jerks his head in her direction as if to tell you to hush. Then he looks back over you– as if searching your body for something completely new.
"Did you get a tattoo while I wasn't looking? Because if so I want to lick– My hideous stretchmarks, Hvitserk." You redirect his attention away from your thigh, where you told him you wanted to have one done. Or maybe your hip– he wasn't sure which.
"What is wrong with your stretchmarks?" He asks, glazing a finger against the dark tears of your stomach.
"I'm flabby." You say in regards to your loose belly. Your daughter had left you looking well, still a few months along. You were already sick of your body.
"You just gave birth a few weeks ago." he points out. "The midwife said–"
"I don't want to feel like I'm his anymore than I already do." You say all at once, causing Hvitserk's head to tilt. At first, he loses that sunny bright smile. Of course, anyone would knowing that a famed shieldmaiden was being beaten by her husband. That was before Hvitserk took it upon himself to relieve you of your bonds to him as you were quite pregnant. An amused laugh trills off his lips at the obscenity of such a statement.
"When has (Y/N) belonged to anyone?" He whispers against your lips. You should have killed him yourself– you longed to be the one to end him. Inevitably you smile at his stupid statement.
"What if I want to belong to someone?" You suggest in a tease of a hum. He looks blankly toward you as if all inner workings of his mind have stopped. Hvitserk shares a breath against yours on his lips. Then it clicks for him what you mean, turning to you with a saucy grin.
"Me?"
"Yes. As long as you belong to me first."
Because maybe a part of him was right– no one owned you alone. But belonging with someone? That was something you could get used to.
