Little Hands | Ivar Lothbrok
Warnings: Swearing, childbirth, pregnancy, breastfeeding
If Ivar could walk, he would be pacing to wear a hole in the floor; you were sure of it. He sat next to you on your shared bed, one hand on the top of your swollen stomach and the other clasped firmly around your own. You watched the worry etch into his pale features, his fingers grasping yours so tightly they were beginning to go numb. You brought your free hand to his face, gently smoothing the wrinkles that had settled in above his brow with your thumb.
“Ivar, my dear husband, will you please relax?” He scoffed but loosened his death grip on your fingers to allow you some relief. You sighed as he possessively rubbed over your stomach as if trying to calm the small child inside with just his touch. You had been feeling the tightening of your womb for several days but early this morning your waters had broken, throwing Ivar into a fit of worry and anguish.