Ivar's thrall (Y/N) is hopelessly in love with her master. Her master might love her too, and after she is punished by Ubbe, Ivar finds himself feeling overprotective. However, he's scared of falling in love and forces her to do things she does not...
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You would do whatever it took to keep your master happy. Sometimes it meant taking his things to patch and repair. Other times you brought his axes to the blacksmith. All for him. Whatever you did was for him. He just... never noticed you like he noticed Margrethe with her beautiful blonde hair and hands at the table as they cooked.
"Thrall, you're accused of thievery." Queen Aslaug says in a low, almost comforting tone. "What have you to say?"
Your word meant nothing to them. Yet still it would still be worse to deny it– even though it wasn't true. You never meant to take the things with any intent to steal them. You... only wanted to make him smile. The other thralls had teased and framed you. Of that you were certain, because they knew who you were in love with. The one everyone hated.
"I'm guilty, my Queen." You kneel before one of her sons: the oldest, Ubbe. Your dress was crumbled shamefully against your breast as you looked up at her, hair rung in Ubbe's hand like a rope. He encircles you before you feel the hot sting of his whip against your back. You bite your tongue to avoid crying out as he beats you. You count strike after strike, your hair keeping you in place as Ubbe's whip slashes across your smooth skin. Finally at twenty seven, you heard a protest. When had he come in?
"She didn't steal anything from me mother." You hear the complaint from your Master, wanting to gaze over your shoulder to him. But with your hair tight in Ubbe's hand, you could only feel relief knowing he was there. Your muscles quiver as blood coursed down your back.
"Thrall." The Queen calls "Why did you lie?"
You were going to be prosecuted anyway. Why tell the truth? Ubbe would have whipped you harder. Ubbe releases your braid, and you collapse forward, dropping the murky brown of your dress.
"I... I..." You stutter.
Your master rolls his eyes with a bob of his head. "She's meek. She thought you would whip her anyway. Come here, (Y/N)." He called.
You slunk forward. The blood of your back and marks stung, burning the crevices as Ivar hisses in disappointment. His thick fingers wipe along the sticky, crimson liquid that has painted your back with welts.
"You ruined her." He tells Ubbe, calling another thrall for a basin of water. You sit trembling in his arms as he takes the cloth of the bowl, soothing the wounds. You can't help but think of his words– Ubbe ruined you. The scars would remain. It would not be like the usual slaps you received.
"You should have spoken up earlier." Ubbe says, walking to the table where he set down the whip. Ivar grunts as if he didn't know their plans–
"She's not a household thrall, Mother." He looks over to his mother. "I should be the one to punish her."
Aslaug stares down to her cup as if she can't fight with her beloved boy. You knew that she meant well for her little boy. If you were a mother with a thief in your household, you might be as mad as she was earlier. Ivar splashes water in annoyance, picking the cloth up and forcing you onto your knees. He gingerly wipes over your face, taking the fur off of his back to slide onto your shoulders.
"Back to my room." He motions you to go– and you shyly stand up, waiting for your master to lead the way. You fall behind him, holding the fur tight around your body. It smelled thickly of him– the heat of a newly kindled flame, the blades of grass and his own musky scent that all soothe you day to day. He directs you to lay in his bed and you do– folding his fur off to the side and curling in his furs on his bed. Ivar drags himself on top of his bed, pulling his legs around as he rolled you onto your stomach.
His hand pressed against your ass– and as fearful as you are that your beloved master might force himself upon you, he doesn't. He traces the marks with a tsking tongue, dancing up toward your long hair.
"You should have called for me. I know you aren't a thief." Ivar laments. Your hands are folded just above your breasts to prop you up.
"I thought... I thought you would not come." You say.
"You doubted me?" He suggests, voice heating up at the suggestion.
"No m... master. I didn't... I mean that I didn't want to burden you and make you angry." You decide to say, Ivar's hand collaring the back of your neck. You glance at him as he curls beside you, angling your face toward him. It made sense. He spent so many days peeping on Margrethe with his brothers– and failing to sleep with her. His temper had been so ill with you as of late, that you didn't want to be on the receiving end of his wrath.
"Hm." He grunts, pulling his hand away. You look into his eyes, storming blue with thought. "I have been cruel to you lately."
Cruel because he was frustrated. Margrethe had told you how he failed– that you shouldn't get your hopes up for him. His prick did not work. You nod at his assertion. Lately, it was better to do what he wanted and hide.
"It is because you love me." Ivar rolls onto his back, hand draped on his chest. "And I don't know why."
Aslaug loved him for good reason. She was his beautiful mother who gave birth to him, who cared for him– when no one else would. You? He didn't understand. There was no reason for you to have this silly little crush on him. Did you think he hadn't noticed the things you brought for fixing? How you stayed up late mending his things?
Oh he noticed it– but he didn't understand it.
You pull yourself over to your master, breasts against his chest. He can't bear to look at you when you pull his face to. Ivar's hand comes up against the small of your back, hissing that you might bleed all over his bed and make a mess. Something in your heart said he was worried for more than you simply making a mess on his bed. You could only hope– that it was because he didn't want you hurt.
"Because you are Ivar." You say. Because that was descriptive.
He rolls his eyes. "Yes... Ivar. A great and mighty cripple."
"Master." You say, shifting on his chest to look at him.
His head drops to the side with a grumble. "What?" He says.
"You'll be the greatest and mightiest cripple we've seen."
At that, he snorts– a laugh rumbling up his throat that he couldn't hold back. How ridiculous you were to believe such a thing. You insist on it every time he is feeling low and he always has a snappish response for you. This time, he leans up to purse a little kiss to your forehead.
"Go to sleep. You're delusional with the bloodloss." He insists. He becomes more sure of that by the little giggles that spill off your lips. He kissed you! He actually kissed you! You set your head on his chest, drifting to sleep as he strokes your arm lazily.
