Ivar the Boneless Imagines

Son

The boy wasn't his. He knew that and still, he found himself feeling as if he were more of a father than the deadbeat who never came around. Whether that was because he broke a bottle of glass in his clavicle after he threatened you with his hand like he used to, or not, was irrelevant.

You were fixing his skinny suit with shaking hands, ranting.

"Now you go be good to the girl. No grabby hands, okay? I don't want to hear about grabby hands." Your son stood glaring off to where Ivar sat on a bar stool, looking over his body.

"Yeah, mor. I know, I think I know not to molest someone." He says in a deeply aggravated tone.

"Plenty of boys ignore it." You say, slicking his hair neatly.

"Did a dog raise him, (Y/N)? He'll be fine." Ivar says with a streak of irritation.

It was prom– his last one at home. He had been accepted into a school that he so sought after. He was excited to finally get his life on a roll. Ivar was too. The only one who seemed nervous was you.

"I can't fix this tie, Ivar!" You throw your hands up, storming out of the living room and into the kitchen for the corsage. His son looks back in your direction before looking back to Ivar. Ivar bids him closer, loosening the clumsy knot on his chest.

"She's wound up." He says.

"She's not ready for you to be all grown up. In a few months, you'll be gone." Ivar says, throwing the tie over his son's broad shoulders. His aged hands works the tie into its proper knot, gliding it into position.

"When I'm with you, I'm happy far. She's acting like I'll be gone forever!" He buttons his jacket.

"I can hear you!" You call from the kitchen.

His son laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "You'll take care of mor, right?"

"Always have." Ivar responds boredly, ruffling his hair so stray bits of hair fall out of place. Ivar! You shrill from in the kitchen. "Always will."