❛ summary | hvitserk's woman makes an admission to him about their pronouns once they're found out to be pregnant.
❛ warnings | none
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Hvit didn't consider himself to be the best friend.
Like a Ragnarsson, he was kinda spacy when things weren't about what he had going on. But every once in a while he would come trudging back, curious to know what you had going on lately. Raiding with you was the best. He knew you had his back when he needed you. You fought together, you played together and when sex was needed, that was covered too. Nothing ever progressed more than fuck buddies.
Except when a oopsie, I came inside became an oopsie, you're pregnant. He was overbearing about the whole ordeal, coming to make sure you had fruit or ensuring that the shield"maiden" that you were was content. Except when your father came out to exchange talk about a wedding, you were left skipping rocks coast side. The force in which you threw smooth rocks could have thrown out your back.
Hvitserk came with a peach in his hand, flipping it around like a potato while examining you. He knew that... well... you were upset about something. Maybe the marriage arranged to him after the whole, I shamed your family thing.
"Don't throw out your back, princess." He says.
The words make you squick, flicking another rock so forcefully that it sinks instantaneously. You turn to him, staring long and hard.
"What?" He chirps.
"Why is it that when we are on the field, I am a warrior," you begin. "But when I am here, suddenly I'm a princess."
"Ah, you are going to be my wife." Hvitserk flips his peach and bites of it. "You're pregnant. I thought women liked–"
"I don't feel like a woman."
He blanks. You don't– don't feel like a woman. He rationalizes your words or at least tries to, perhaps that you hit your head. Or that you wanted to be one of the guys when he was with his brothers so often that you forgot when to drop the act.
"...prince?"
"I am a warrior. I am your partner. Not she. Or he."
Hvitserk swallows his bite of peach, eyes traveling your small distention and settling upon it. It makes no sense. Or at least to him, it doesn't. If he were you, he thinks, he might understand more.
"Then what would you rather be called by?"
"They."
Hvitserk twists his peach around, collapsing on the floor by you. With a small, shrug of his shoulders he agrees.
"Okay."
"Okay?" You question him, wondering how he might be taking this so easily. Your father would not humor you. He thought it was a shame to the natural order the gods set in place. You were no god, he told you.
"Yeah."
"Why is it okay?" You sit beside him, cursing the dress that gets in the way of you sitting. Your hands fold on top of your lap.
"Do you want it not to be okay?" He asks curiously enough.
"Just answer me."
At some point, he has to admit, he's just confused with you! You weren't the kind of woman– err, person, that made sense to him a hundred percent of the time. Hvitserk flings his muscular arms behind his head.
"Well. Loki is a man, I think. He was chased when the gods were fortifying Asgard and impregnated in a mare's form. Sleipnir came and... Odin rides Sleipnir. So if the gods can do it..."
"So can I?" You say, cutely. Does cute have a gender? He doesn't think it does.
"Yeah," he says. "You can."
Hvitserk leans his hand up, cradling your cheek in his hand. He nods, motioning you closer. You sit beside him, letting Hvitserk arrange his head on his lap. With no other talk, he shrugs off anything that you have to say and offers you his peach.
