He knew he messed up.
Punching a man before he knew the situation? It was wrong. Punching a man before he knew how he was related to you? Worse. Annnnd most of all, punching him off his feet when he later learned the man was your older brother? The worst of all mistakes that left Hvitserk trying to break into his own damn home with the moon kissing the sky. His cheek was still beating an ache, battered purple from where you beat him in response.
But he didn't care– you were in there, pouting up a storm. If he left you until tomorrow, he knew you would stew and give him the most adorable pout. But a pout nonetheless. When he managed to slink into his bed, he shook you awake from sweet dreams where your husband wasn't there, sliding his arms around your waist and trying to soothe you over into just falling asleep with him.
The gall.
"How did you get here?" You ask, attempting to peel his hand away from your waist. Even half asleep you remembered what he had done. It wasn't just that he slapped your brother. Your oldest of brothers could handle being jumped and beaten. He beat back. What didn't sit well with you was knowing how he didn't trust you. You press your face to burrow in warm furs as if to create your own little cave of safety and sleep when Hvitserk made his complaints.
"Don't be angry with me babe. I love you..." Hvitserk husks in your ear, trying to will you back to life to slide into your good graces.
"Go away. Hvitserk Lothbrok. You punched my brother out." You find it easier to do that than forgive him bitterly as you might do time to time.
"Only because I love you. What if he was trying to take you away?" Hvitserk flips you onto his chest, pulling your warm furs and blankets over your bodies. He keeps you pressed tight despite how you might whine, pushing yourself most dramatically to the side when he nuzzles into your neck. "I don't want anyone else to have you like this."
You could have whined– made complaints or pout. Somehow though, Hvitserk has this magic in his puppy like eyes. You swore it was how he braided his hair back to accentuate those brilliant eyes or the way he smiled at you like you were everything. In any case, you were fucked when he gave you that look.
Just like he was doing now.
A sigh escapes your lips, stopping that midflail to pout like a fat, grouchy housecat in his arms waiting for its next treat. You peer out of the corner of your eye at him, holding the pathetic puppy of a look in those glittering eyes.
"Fine." You sigh. "You can stay– but don't push your luck."
As you say it, you already know that those traveling fingers of his have already pushed their luck hard. But how could you honestly stay mad at your puppy boy? You suppose this was just life with your Hvitserk.
