❝ Hvitserk waits for his son– or daughter to move. ❞
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"He isn't moving yet," Hvitserk says in forlorn longing. His round cheek presses against your stomach, visibly pouting. It's been a good few months since you announced your pregnancy. By now, he thought, his son should be moving.
"He'll move in his own time, Hvitserk." You remark. The needle in your fingers dip under leather, pulling coins tight against the leather overtunic.
"Not fast enough," he looks up, bringing his hand to cradle your stomach. It could be weeks— his cheek shifts under the strange wave of your belly. You drop your needle in abrupt surprise.
"Oof!"
Hvitserk lifts his lazy eyes up to look at you, then back down to your stomach. The beginnings of a smile pull his slim lips wide and bright.
"Was that—"
"It was," you say as Hvitserk alternates up to kiss you, smooth and quick. Your fingers cradle his cheek. The cold metal of your ring smoothing his jaw. "It was your son."
He delights in it, setting his cheek back down in hope that he would do it again. Several minutes later, he does. Hvitserk shouts in his glee, peppering your stomach in kisses.
"Good boy!"
You knew you weren't moving from that bed anytime soon.
