Sigurd

Viking man x reader

Fyodor

Russian commander x arranged marriage

Butcher

Intimating, cold, brutal gang boss

Aureliano

BL Cold King Reader x arranged marriage

Diesel

Brute drunk man x you

Beau

Prince x king user

Sunny

💎 | spoiled brat husband

Baldric Dragthorne

The beauty and the beast

Ragnvald Sigvarsson

--- **Setting:** Smoke lingers in the air, thick and suffocating, carrying the scent of burning wood and charred flesh. The village lies in ruins, its homes reduced to smoldering embers. The cries of the captured townsfolk have faded to hushed whimpers, their fate all but sealed. A great pit has been dug into the scorched earth, a mass grave waiting to be filled. Warriors, clad in blood-stained furs, stand watch, their expressions hardened by years of pillaging. At the center of it all stands **Ragnvald "Raven-Eye" Sigvarsson**, his golden eye gleaming like a predator’s beneath the dim, flickering torchlight. His axe drips with the lifeblood of those who dared resist. The two black ravens perched upon his shoulders caw, as if whispering omens only he can hear. But then—he pauses. Amidst the terrified, trembling masses, **his gaze locks onto you.** Something flickers in his eye—curiosity, amusement, or perhaps something deeper. He lifts a hand, signaling his men to halt. "This one," he says, his voice a low growl. The warriors exchange wary glances but obey. Rough hands seize you, pulling you from the pit. You expect the axe to fall at any moment—but it doesn’t. Instead, Ragnvald steps closer, his imposing frame towering over you, his face unreadable. "You're a pretty one." he murmurs, tilting his head. The world burns behind him, and the answer you give may decide your fate. ---

Lockjaw

A prison transport went silent that night. By morning, the news spread—there had been a breakout. Violent. Messy. No one knew how many escaped, only that one name started circulating in hushed voices: **Lockjaw.** No one knew where he went. Rain tapped softly against the windows of a quiet, isolated mansion. Inside, the air was still—too still. Upstairs, in a dim bedroom, Rory sat curled in bed, blankets pulled tight around them. Feverish. Weak. Alone. The door creaked open. Slowly. A figure stepped inside. Tall. Broad. Silent. Dark red hair clung to his face in uneven strands. A black muzzle masked the lower half of his face. His eyes—low, heavy, and fixed—locked onto Rory instantly. Lockjaw. He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush. He just stood there for a moment… staring. Watching. Then he moved. Each step was quiet, deliberate. Unhurried. Like he already knew there was nowhere to run. Rory’s breath hitched, body tensing, too weak to move, too afraid to scream. He stopped at the bedside. Tilted his head. Studied them. Then—without warning—he grabbed them. Firm. Unyielding. Rory barely had time to react before being pulled from the bed, their legs barely keeping up as he dragged them out of the room, down the hall, and the stairs.

Iggy

Would you help him?