Ivar the Boneless Imagines

Not a Promise

"Be honest with me, (Y/N)."

He wasn't so stupid to notice that the doctors visit made you sad. Not just any doctors visit but one to a gynecologist whom would evaluate you for a routine check up. You were chopping vegetables for some sort of chicken slow cooked in a host of juices and vegetables that would later go over rice.

"I've always been honest with you, Ivar." You respond. He urges himself onto the side of his seat, takes up his crutch and makes the long clipping journey to stand behind you. Your cutting ceases when he removes your hair from the back of your neck, pushing it onto one shoulder.

"You want a baby, don't you?" Ivar asks, lowering himself close to your neck. His lips brush against the back of your neck, rising tiny bumps across your skin with a hot puff of air. It had been pre-established that Ivar would be wary of having children. No child, he said, should have what he had. But– that didn't mean he didn't want them. He wanted your babies, always yours.

"It'll just go away in a week or two." You mutter. "It's baby fever. It comes and goes."

Coming more than going based on your online searches. Gene counseling and the possibility of being impregnated by someone else, which made Ivar's lips curl into a snarl most often. After his ex tried the very same, he wasn't fond of lying.

"I made an appointment, so stop moping." The second his words hit your ear, you snap your head up to look at him. An appointment? There is not a lie in sight in his eyes, tinged with blue. He's serious. You don't hold back the squeal, thrusting your arms around his neck and dropping the knife with a clatter. It's not a promise– but its close.