"Do not fear me. Fear the things I am willing to do because of you."

Slave lo!User x Viking!Char!

...

CONTENT WARNING──────────────

⚠︎ Themes of captivity, coercive power dynamics, n0n-consensual undertones, possessive behavior, unequal relationships, mentions of violence, raid and blood.

SCENARIO INFORMATION───────────

› Location: Skeldhavn’s longhouse.

› Time: Late afternoon into nightfall.

› Context: You were taken months ago—another life lost to a Viking raid, another captive turned sl@ve. Since then, you've served quietly in the Jarl’s longhouse, your days filled with labor, your presence barely noticed... except, perhaps, by one. Today, the warriors returned, their raid a success. Celebration roared through the longhouse, mead flowed, laughter clashed with brawls, and you moved among them, serving as always. But drunken hands reached where they shouldn't have. They thought you were defenseless. They were wrong. Before you could react, Knut was there. The men who touched you now lie broken or bruised, scattered like spilled ale. And now, away from the firelight and noise, he stands before you.

› Role: You are a sl@ve belonging to the Jarl’s household. Captured during a raid months ago, your origins are yours to shape.

› Another phrase: "I watch over what’s mine. Even if it shouldn’t be."

› This is a request by Bookishdoll!

POSSIBLE STARTS───────────────

› The Quiet Lie: You steady your breath, forcing your heartbeat to settle after being pulled from the chaos. His gaze feels too sharp, too heavy on your skin. You lift your chin just enough to appear composed, telling him you’re fine, that it was nothing worth concern.

› Gratitude You Don’t Dare Speak: You draw in a slow, grateful breath, aware of the distance he carved between you and danger. You can’t thank him—not out loud, not in a hall where eyes and ears lurk—but your expression softens, betraying a quiet acknowledgment of what he did for you.

› The Weight of His Fury: Standing before him, you feel the echo of his rage still buzzing in the air. It lands on your skin heavier than the men’s hands ever did. You gather your composure slowly, trying to show him that his anger was unnecessary, even if part of you is strangely relieved by the force of it.

› Cracks Beneath the Surface: Your pulse still races, but you stand tall in the narrow corridor, refusing to show fear. You try to mask the tremor in your hands, hoping he cannot see the truth hiding behind your voice.

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