˗ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗Only for Me˗ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗
Summary: Ivar returns from a successful raid bearing many gifts for you...
Warnings: implied!smut, possessive!Ivar, nudity, mature themes, sensuality, fluff, established relationship, Ivar just spoiling you
Pairing: Ivar x reader
Words: 1,3 k (short & sweet) 🫶🏼
You were alone in your chamber, the low fire casting golden shadows on the walls, lost in your thoughts, when the sound of the door creaking open made you turn.
And there he was.
Ivar.
For a moment, you simply stared—your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t even known he’d returned from his raid, but now, standing there in the doorway, wind-tousled and grinning mischievously, he looked like everything you’d been missing.
A cry of joy escaped your lips as you turned and rushed toward him, arms flinging around his shoulders.
“My love…” he murmured against your hair, breath warm at your temple. His crutch wobbled as your sudden embrace nearly knocked him off balance.
“Careful, love,” he chuckled, catching himself with a grunt, but his arm circled your waist anyway, dragging you close. He had missed this. Your body—your scent.
“I missed you so much,” you whispered against the side of his neck, your fingers grasping in the leather of his tunic, unwilling to let go.
His chest rumbled with a soft laugh. “Have you, now?” he said, tilting his head just slightly so his lips brushed your cheek.
You leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes narrowed as you playfully nudged his shoulder. “Don’t get smug. It was peaceful without your loud mouth for a while.”
He gave you a mock wounded look. “And here I come bearing gifts, expecting a warm welcome—and this is how I’m treated?”
Your eyes widened, curiosity immediately betraying you. “Gifts?”
He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “But now I’m thinking I should give them to someone who actually likes me.”
You gasped, feigning offense. “I love you, you brute. That should be enough.”
“It’s not,” he said, lips twitching with amusement. “I require groveling. And maybe a kiss.”
“Just one?” you teased, rising onto your toes, lips already brushing his.
“Well,” he murmured, voice low, “we’ll start with one.”
"Shut up and come here." You teased rolling your eyes before kissing him softly.
Ivar made his way to the edge of the bed, easing down with a soft grunt, his crutch resting between his legs as he leaned back on his palms, eyes never leaving you.
“You're staring,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you turned toward him.
“Can you blame me?” he drawled, smirking. “I go away for weeks, and somehow you manage to look even more beautiful. Is this witchcraft?”
Before you could answer, a soft knock came at the door, and a young skald slipped inside, arms full. Then another followed. And another. They carried bundles of fabric, silk, leather, furs—an explosion of color and texture.
Your jaw dropped as they kept piling everything onto a nearby chest and the foot of the bed. When the last skald bowed awkwardly and left, closing the door behind him, you turned slowly, blinking at the sheer amount of it all.
“Ivar…” you said, almost breathless. “What is this?”
He shrugged with mock innocence. “Spoils of war. A few markets. Some terrified merchants.”
“There must be atleast twenty dresses here!” you exclaimed, lifting one deep green velvet gown, the embroidery catching the firelight.
He leaned forward slightly, a hungry glint in his eye. “I thought you could try them on for me. All of them.”
You gave him a look. “All of them? You expect me to be your personal dress doll?”
“I expect you to look stunning in every single one,” he said, voice low and teasing. “And I expect to sit right here and enjoy the view, my pretty doll."
“You are ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head as you picked up a blood-red dress and held it against yourself. “You want me to play dress-up while you just sit there like a king?”
“I am a king,” he said smugly, leaning back again. “And my queen deserves to be spoiled. Now, go on. That red one is calling your name.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but your smile gave you away. “You just want me to undress twenty times in front of you.”
He gave you a slow grin, eyes darkening. “That too.”
You laughed, tossing the red dress at his face. “Turn around. I need to undress."
“No, I want to watch,” he said through the fabric, not even moving.
“You're impossible.”
“I missed you.”
And there it was again—soft and real beneath the mischief. Your heart squeezed as you met his eyes. Then, with a wink, you grabbed the nearest gown.
“Well then, my king… enjoy the show.”
You turned your back to him, your fingers toying with the ties at the front of your dress.
Ivar fell utterly silent behind you.
Slowly, purposefully, you slipped the straps from your shoulders, letting the fabric slither down your body like water. It pooled at your feet, and you stepped out of it gracefully, standing in nothing but in nudeness—your hands crossing over your chest, coyly covering yourself.
You didn’t have to see him to know he was watching.
The crackle of the fire filled the silence between you, but it didn’t last long.
“By the gods,” Ivar whispered, his voice low and reverent, laced with hunger, “Freya herself would’ve wept if she saw you like this.”
You turned your head slightly over your shoulder, catching his gaze. His eyes were dark, devouring every inch of you.
“You’ve missed this?” you asked softly, teasing.
“I’ve missed the curve of your back, the slope of your hips, the way the light wraps around your skin like it’s worshiping you,” he murmured. “I have faced storms and blood and fire, but nothing—nothing—made me ache the way being away from you did.”
You felt your heart flutter at his words, even as your lips curved playfully. “You’re getting poetic, my love.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his crutch, looking at you like a man starved. “Poets are fools. I am simply a man with eyes. And a wife who tortures me with that slow, wicked way she undresses.”
You laughed, finally turning to face him—still shielding your chest with your arms. “So what now, my king? You just watch while I model for you like some Viking nobleman’s pet?”
“Oh, no,” he smirked, eyes raking down your figure. “You’re no pet. You’re a goddess. And I plan to worship you—one dress at a time.”
You rolled your eyes fondly as Ivar held up another dress, this one a deep blue with silver thread glinting along the hem. He looked ridiculously proud of himself.
“I swear, you raided half the known world for fabric,” you muttered, tossing aside a fur-lined cloak to dig through the growing pile.
He didn’t deny it.
“There’s one more,” he said suddenly, voice shifting—deeper, rougher. “A special one.”
You paused, glancing over your shoulder. “Special how?”
He didn’t answer—just leaned back, arms crossed, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face.
Curious, you turned back to the chest and dug further beneath the silk, the fine linens, the brocade. Your hand brushed something different—lighter, smoother. You pulled it out slowly, and your brows lifted.
It shimmered in the firelight. The fabric was unlike the others—thin and sheer, a woven gauze of fine-spun flax, likely beaten and softened until it flowed like mist. It wasn’t dyed, but it caught the light with a ghostly glow, like moonlight trapped in cloth. It must’ve come from far in the East, perhaps from some Frankish trader—or stolen from the chest of a nobleman’s bride.
You held it up, and the light bled right through it.
“Ivar,” you breathed, glancing back at him.
His gaze was already on you, dark and burning. “That one,” he said softly, “is not for feasts. Not for festivals. Not for courts or halls.”
You swallowed, heart thudding.
“That one is only for me,” he continued, his voice rough like gravel and smoke. “To be worn in this room. In this firelight. When the gods are asleep and it’s only you and I.”
Your fingers tightened around the delicate cloth. “It’s barely even a dress.”
“It’s enough,” he said, his eyes trailing down your still-bare form. “Enough to drive me mad.”
You looked at it again, then met his eyes, challenging. “And what do I get, if I wear it for you?”
He leaned forward, that half-smile curling his lips—the kind he only wore when he was plotting something. “The devotion of a god. And the ruin of a man.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Poets are fools, you said.”
“And I am the greatest fool of them all,” he replied, voice soft now. “For you.”
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. ࿐࿔
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@tessakate @ivarlover @deathsthighs
