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Ideally, he wanted someone unlike Lagertha.
A dainty, witty woman that was unlike her. Yet somehow– as the door opened, like it usually did at this late hour, in you came. Your ankles likely swollen, dirt in all his favourite places and mucky hair. You were back from your father's farm.
"Look who remembered her husband." Ivar remarks causticly, his fingers dirty by the protein between his digits. You shed the trousers and tunic where you stand and reach for a wide bowl of water. Your tired eyes afix on him as you pin up your long braids, running a moistened towel across your nape.
"Hello to you too, my love." You hum. Ivar pushes himself to stand, limping forward with each step rougher than the last. He walks forward to take the wet rag off your hands.
"Let me do it. You'll miss the worst of it." He growls, proceeding to clean you top to bottom. Despite thick fingers, he tenderly works the cloth between the creases of your arms, legs and thighs. When he encounters more sensuous areas, his attention lingers.
"Have you missed me?" You ask, watching as he moistens his cloth to bring back to your hand. He scrubs your wedding ring absolutely pristine. With you satisfactorily clean, he pushes you to lay upon the bed. His eyes roam over your every dip and curve to inspect his work. When satisfied Ivar tosses the rag to the ground, dragging himself to top the bed. He places your ankles a top of his lap, rubbing the swollen ankles in his fingertips.
"He works you too hard. This is your home to care for, not his." Ivar says.
Perhaps he did. Too many hours of tilling the earth, praying to Freyr, making sure everything was on task. Your hand came to loosen the clip on your braids, flicking it on Ivar's deemed side of the bed.
"I can do both." You say in your defense, giving him a bright smile. You could do it all. You would do it all. A husband wasn't about to stop you, either.
Ivar snorts, "If he wants a thrall, I will give him one. Otherwise, tell him to stop working you so hard. Or I will." He remarks bitterly, dragging himself beside you.
"I will tell him," You roll to face him. "That I have a needy husband."
Ivar tilts his head toward you beginning to snap back when he realizes the pure exhaustion writ over your face. "Come here." He rasps. His arms drift behind his head and sneakily, all too quickly, one of his arms sneaks behind your back. A stubborn, prickly cuddle were the cuddles you were most accustomed to.
