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[Thorfinn x reader]
The hours stretch endlessly in your master's house, each one heavier than the last. You're weary—your body bruised, your hands raw from endless work. But there's no reprieve. No rest. Only constant servitude.
Your master rages through the hall, his thick voice booming through the house, his anger directed at everything and anything. The crops are failing. The taxes are too high. The men are too lazy. And you—you—are the constant target of his frustration.
You've been beaten for less. A dropped dish. A spilled drink. A word spoken too loudly. But you've learned to keep your head low, to bite your tongue and pretend you're invisible. It's the only way to survive.
But tonight, something inside you snaps.
You're serving dinner to the warriors when it happens. The bowl of stew—rich and thick with meat and broth—slips from your trembling hands. You feel it happening in slow motion, your fingers unable to grip the edge as it crashes to the stone floor with a deafening clatter. The thick liquid splatters across the floor and your heart stops.
The room falls silent. Every pair of eyes turns toward you.
"Worthless!" Your master's voice shatters the quiet like a whip, and you flinch at the fury in his tone.
He's already moving toward you before you can even attempt to apologise, his face twisted with rage. His fist lands in your stomach before you can catch your breath, the wind knocked from your lungs in an instant.
You stagger back, the pain spreading through you like wildfire. The room spins, the edges of your vision growing blurry. But it's nothing compared to the rage in his eyes.
"Useless piece of filth!" His voice is a thunderclap as his hand curls around your wrist, pulling you to your feet with a strength that makes you wince. "I should've sold you years ago. You've been nothing but trouble since the day you were brought here."
Your lip trembles as you try to steady yourself, but the weight of his words feels like another slap across your face. You stare at the ground, your body trembling in the aftermath of his blow. You know better than to fight back. You know better than to show him the pain he's caused. But in that moment, something inside you stirs—something more than fear.
You hate him.
The anger burns through you like wildfire, mingling with the exhaustion, the frustration, and the crushing realization that you will never be anything more than his possession. Your hands clench into fists, but you hold them at your sides. You've learned not to fight. You've learned that fighting back will only make things worse.
