Hey there, thanks for stopping in and checking my stuff out. Take a break, rest your mind and read for a bit.
I’m Roman, they/them, 21. Just your local odd and eerie eldritch being that has an intense fixation with writing fictional works about monsters and beasts and hybrids and aliens!
And what it would be like to romance/fuck them—
I do take requests/asks!
My inbox is open, and don’t be afraid to interact with the posts themselves. I love to hear thoughts from the readers.
Idk if this is anything BUT just thinking about some kind of monster/alien/other being marrying a human as part of an alliance. Everyone pities the poor human, certain they'll miserable and mistreated or even dead at the hands of the big scary monster they've been forced to be with. Only to realize during a diplomatic visit some months afterwards that the human is exactly where they want to be, suddenly the rumors of screams ringing through the castle at night aren't so worrying.
I have many similar thoughts along the lines of people being like "oh no! We have to save them from the horrible monster! It's going to kill them!" And the human being like "stop trying to save me from the big scary monster, you're cockblocking me and it's annoying"
Oh I love the way you think, keep these ideas flowing. Using this to shamelessly write about Yautja again. (I haven’t watched Badlands yet so don’t yell at me for any tradition/culture stuff I miss. I just love Yautja so much I crave to write about them)
To Take a Mate - Yautja x Reader
A year had passed since you’d been claimed as a mate to the reigning Yautja leader, Kator. An agreement made between the humans and Yautja to ensure some semblance of peace.
At first, both parties were hesitant to give in— after all, stories of their brutality and cunningness drew paranoia into the minds and hearts of the humans. What happened when you were sent off? You’d undoubtedly be dead within the first month, and that would give the Yautja plenty of reason to come back. But you insisted, determined to be the first step towards an understanding. A potential era of peace for both species. Humans were cruel, they would enact violence and excuse it as defense. Yautja ran on codes and honor, you knew that much going into it.
Kator ensured your safety the moment you crossed the threshold of his kingdom. With a hulking, scarred body the color of deep grey stone and an intensely intelligent gaze. Fleshy, thick dread-like tendrils reached well below his chest, adorned with charms and bone. He’d fixed himself to your side within seconds. His hand hovering mere centimeters from your back as he guided you through the corridors and showed you the home you would be sharing with him.
Over the course of a few months, you’d warmed to him immensely. And he to you. Your hungry curiosity and gentle kindness were absent from all other humans he’d met. And Kator had seen centuries of humans come and go. Empires rising and falling in fragility. While you might have been fragile in body, he learned quickly that everything else about you was strong. You faced him head on, meeting his gaze without fear or judgement.
The first time your hands ran over his skin, he growled something deep and wrecked. Trying his best to maintain a respectful distance until you were ready, the Yautja seemed starved for it. After that, physical contact became natural between you two. His hand sliding over the small of your back when you walked together. Sneaking into the armory while he polished weaponry so you could wriggle into his arms until he discarded whatever he was working on prior. Gently curling a finger around a mandible while you pressed against him in the darkness of your shared bed.
When the touches began to linger and intensify, you’d given in to his hungry gaze. Let him pull you on top of him and coax soft, pleasure whines and whimpers from you. The first time was the gentlest he’d been, mapping out your body and finding your most sensitive spots with ease. After that, the control Kator exhibited slipped, and you encouraged it. You couldn’t get enough of it, of his all-consuming devotion. His reverent touch and low growls of pride when you took him without hesitation.
So when the humans returned a year later, vibrating with hostile energy, you’d been quite irritated. Stomping into the main hall of the palace you’d begun to call your home as if they owned the place. Ripping their thin metal helms off of their heads and demanded you be returned. A rescue mission, they insisted. Obviously you were being held against your will, right?
Kator was sitting alone on his throne, legs spread comfortably as his fingers drummed methodically on his thigh. He leveled them with a blank expression, mandible flaring in a mixture of amusement and controlled offense. To barge into his home so aggressively, demanding things that were not theirs to demand. You stood silent and rigid beside him, eyes narrowed at the intruders. It was supposed to be a diplomatic meeting meant to reinforce the conditions of the treaty.
Kator fixed you with a fond look, much different to the one he gave the human warriors in front of him. His hand stretched out to you invitingly. “Do you wish to be rescued?” He asked, amusement clear in the low rumble of his voice. “They think you are miserable here.”
You didn’t hesitate to let your palm fall into his, shivering at the feeling of his mandibles gently caressing over your knuckles. Not even hours before you had been completely enveloped in him, forcing him to remain in bed far longer than he should have. And here these people were to ruin the mood.
They fell to a knee when they saw you, stammering out excuse after excuse. “We’ve come to return you safely home—“
“This is my home,” you interrupted roughly, glaring down at the two men. “Why do you assume I need to be rescued?”
They gaped at you in confusion, their facade rippling at how easily you dismissed them. An affectionate growl rumbling deep in Kator’s chest at your statement, his gaze fixed completely on you rather than the humans before him.
“We’ve heard about him, how dangerous he is. We simply feared for your safety,” the larger of the two men said, glaring up at Kator with sickening audacity. “Why not return with us and wed someone you choose?”
The claim dug under your skin and affected you more than it seemed to bother your mate. You made a point then to slide into Kator’s lap, his hands guiding you comfortably across his legs before resting on your hips. You reached up and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, eliciting a low purr from him. Only then did you bother to respond.
“I’m perfect where I am. Nothing you could offer me would be worth more than the way Kator makes me feel. No one could provide what he does,” you insisted, fixing your most venomous glare onto the men. “So leave. Do not return, you interrupted our time together, and Kator’s men would kill for me if I ordered it.”
On cue, four Yautja guards flanked the men on both sides, weapons held threateningly in their hands. Kator’s attention hadn’t moved from you the entire time, hands trailing over your body obsessively, his face fixing itself against your neck whilst inhaling your scent. They were escorted out with protests and empty threats still tumbling from their mouths. When the doors finally shut with a heavy thudding sound, you smiled at Kator.
“Should we return to bed?” You asked sweetly, hands running over his chest and eliciting that dangerous growl from him. He nipped at your skin before lifting you easily into his arms. A squeal was pulled from you as his claws tickled at your inner thighs.
“You should be rewarded for your leadership today,” he spoke, groping the swell of your ass roughly. You gasped and shivered at the underlying message in his words.
Fem reader is preparing to be sacrificed to a volcano god instead of the food people usually offer. The god isn't going to kill her but is fucking her on the alter.
AN - Sorry for the delay, I hope you enjoy this! You guys will have to let me know what you think of it <3
WC - 2,120
Content - worship kink, sex on the altar, praise, fingering, temp play, p in v
“Devotion.”
Lava God x Fem!Reader
No amount of mental preparation seemed to strengthen you to be a sacrifice. As you stood in the temple dedicated to the god your people worshipped, you desperately attempted to part with the distant fear that gripped you.
Xaora— god of molten heat, of chaos and rebirth, lava and volcanoes— had long since began rejecting tributes of food and sentimental belongings, and your island took the impact. Cattle falling under contagious illnesses, crops shriveling under abnormal heat. The final push for the civilians was when the volcano in the center of the island started to become active after centuries of dormancy. Earthquakes like nothing you’d experienced in your life, earth beneath your feet swelling with a heat nearing unbearable.
After an emergency meeting, the elders made the grim decision to offer over one of their own. Every other option had proved futile.
You helped around the temple occasionally, and knew the elders well. Your devotion had been taught to you from a young age, and Xaora was a large piece of your daily life. When they made the announcement to the rest of the island, outrage broke out. No one was foolish enough to offer themselves, to die for something that may not even please the god.
Perhaps that is why you stood before his altar in the dimness of waxing candles. You’d woken up from an uneasy sleep, flashes of natural disaster laying beneath your eyelids. Before you even woke up completely, your feet carried you all the way to the temple at the center of the island. It looked tiny beneath the looming volcano behind it.
You let out a deep breath, sinking to your knees in front of the statue carved of him from igneous rock. A silver ceremonial knife rested in the palms of your hand, the front of your nightgown untied to reveal only a small sliver of skin where your heartbeat thrummed aggressively.
Letting your eyes fall shut, you exhale deeply, willing the tension to leave your body and mind. Your hands did not shake when you pressed the tip of the sharpened blade to your chest.
“I offer myself to you, Xaora. So that your appetite may be sated, and my people might be blessed with your love once more,” you breathe the words with conviction, feeling a surge of confidence.
Within seconds of you speaking, the world around you exploded with intense heat and bright light. You curled in on yourself with a gasp, blacking out for a moment.
When you came to, you were still kneeling. The knife no longer pressed to your chest, but was hanging loosely in front of your eyes. An alarmed yelp ripped from you when you saw the hands holding it.
Where Xaora’s statue had been before now stood a hulking figure of the same god. He resembled a man, but his form made up entirely of igneous rock and slowly flowing lava. His eyes were a searing orange, and they were currently fixated on the ceremonial knife. Your presence not yet acknowledged, he clicked his tongue in annoyance and closed his grip on the knife. It melted between his fingers and singed the carpeted floor in front of you.
A noncommittal sound of confusion sounded from you, which finally drew his gaze to you. His attention carried an imposing heat that dragged lazily over your body. You couldn’t look away from him, though. The sight of him before you, only being able to see him through statues and stories, stirred that devotion in you. He was beautiful in a dangerous manner. Chaos incarnate.
“Do you speak the truth?” His voice sounded like the bubbling of the volcano— a low rumble that shook you from the inside out. “Offering yourself to me.”
Your mouth fell open, yet the words lodged themselves in your throat. Xaora simply watched you, his form constantly shifting in formation. Lava would harden into rock while rock heated and melted. He towered over your kneeling body, making you feel minuscule in comparison.
When you didn’t answer for a long time, he clicked his tongue again. His hand curled around your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. It was a hot touch, but you noticed brightness of the lava that made up the limb had dimmed. He was controlling how much heat he touched you with. You hadn’t expected it to feel as gentle as it did when he tilted your face up. His thumb ran over your lower lip curiously.
“If you do, you shall not die. I never asked you mortals for death, only for life. A salve to soothe the ravenous hunger that plagues me. Do you understand?”
As he spoke, his hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck. At some point he had shrunk to the size of a human man. Still taller than you, but not talking up the entire backside of the temple. His face was inches from yours, scouring your expression for anything he could find. You took a stuttered breath, the intent behind his words suddenly dawning on you. Even though this was the first time you spoke to him face-to-face, a familiar comfort washed over you.
This was the being you worshipped, in all of his bright, scorching glory. Holding you and asking if you were offering yourself to him. His anger with the people of the island stemmed from longing, carnal and searing like the lava that came from him.
“I am yours,” you breathed out without thinking, your hand hesitating mere centimeters from his face. “I have dedicated my life to this island, to worshipping you.. Xaora. Whatever you need, take it from me.”
The orange of his eyes flared vividly to life at the proclamation, a look that seemed almost like pride crossing his face. His grip on you tightened slightly, drawing you closer.
“I knew you would not disappoint me. I have watched you tend to my altar here for many years. The perfect devotee made for me.”
His praise made you flush, eyelashes fluttering lightly as you let yourself lean even closer. Xaora’s hands wandering your skin feverishly, pushing the nightgown off of your shoulders easily. The cotton fabric pooled at your abdomen, trapped by your kneeling position. A low, pleased growl emitted from the god as he observed. The slightest layer of sweat casted a gloss over your skin from the heat he emitted.
You were suddenly flipped, gasping sharply as your bare thighs framed his sweltering body. You straddled him now, as he lounged against the steps of his altar like a king on his throne. Your hands reached out to ground yourself, landing on either of his shoulders. He should have been too hot to touch, scorching and burning every part of you exposed to him.
He wasn’t burning you, though. His heat was overwhelming, but in a way that casted your mind into a muddled haze.
“Show me your level of worship, dear. Open yourself to me,” Xaora coaxed softly, one hand gripping your hip while the other dipped between your thighs.
A whine punched out of you when his fingers dragged against your slick folds. An ache coiled in your core that you’d never experienced before. Your body reacted to him stronger than it had with anyone. He gave no warning as two thick fingers pushed inside of you with little resistance.
“That’s it..” he murmured at your choked gasps. The stretch of him was already a lot for you, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He didn’t move them yet, letting you get used to the intrusion.
Your breathing was rough, the only sound echoing against the walls of the temple. After a minute, every slight twitch of his fingers inside you made that ache in your core grow. But Xaora was showing immense patience, watching you closely for signs of discomfort.
You tightened your grip on his shoulders then, dragging your hips forward in one slow movement. The pads of his fingers brushed roughly against a certain spot that sent your vision reeling. He groaned as you tightened around him, taking it as his sign to move. His fingers fucking in and out of you at a steady, infuriating pace. Drawing out more and more of that wet slick and coating himself in it as you rolled you rolled your hips to match him.
It wasn’t enough. His eyes were on you, and his fingers kept brushing those nerves. He was drinking in every sound, every breath, every twitch and clench around him.
“Please, Xaora—“ your voice came out pleading, feeling the building of your peak far sooner than you were ready to.
The god hummed at you thoughtfully, reaching out with his free hand to push a strand of your hair out of your face. He grabbed your chin and dragged your lips against his. The kiss was feverish, his tongue slipping inside your mouth without warning to taste every part of you he could access. As he did so, his fingers slid out of you.
You whined at the absence, wetness coating your inner thighs and smeared over his hand. He shushed you quietly, maneuvering you around so he could line himself up to you.
The sight of him made your mouth water. He dragged that same slick hand over his cock, hissing at the contact. It was hard and thick, and as he lined the tip up to your entrance you felt the heat that radiated off of him like a furnace. You wondered absently if he could even fit before he was pushing inside of you with a possessive growl.
A choked cry forced itself out of you as he bottomed out. Xaora was reaching parts of you never before touched, stretching you over him like you were the missing puzzle piece he’d been searching for. When you were able to focus again, you noticed the way his breathing had changed. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He gripped your waist tightly, expression twisted into one of awe. You barely had any time to prepare before he was pulling back and thrusting into you.
The pace he set was relentless, using his grip on you to basically hold you there as he drilled into you. He was getting hotter the less he focused, and the heat building inside of you made it harder to think about anything but him. The sounds of slapping skin and barely contained whimpers filled the charged air.
“Xaora—“
“You’re taking me so perfectly. Made for me, made to fit around me. You’re mine,” he interrupted, voice raw with pure desire as he forced your hips down. “Tell me you’ll return. Tell me that you’ll be mine alone. That no god or mortal will steal your worship from me.”
He was fucking you rougher as he spoke, flipping you once more so that you laid against the steps of the altar. Your legs closed around his hips as you nodded wildly, blinking the tears from your eyes as you tried desperately to find words past the garbled whimpers and moans he pulled from you.
“I’m yours, oh gods— No one else will touch me, just please.”
At the word, ‘please’ your vision went white as your orgasm ripped through you like a torrent. Your body twitched as he pulled you against him, still fucking into you like a wild beast. You locked your legs against him, forcing him to spill inside of you. His release was hot and thick, and you trembled against him as he slowed to a stop.
You panted against him, his hands running over your back soothingly. He murmured soft praise against your skin, kissing your eyelids gently.
The second he tried to pull out, your legs tightened. He gave you a curious glance, and you shook your head. “Stay for a minute.. Just want to feel you.”
His expression darkened, and he let out a quit chuckle, drawing you back into his lap. “Don’t tempt me, beautiful. Your stamina is no match for mine. I do not wish to ruin you yet.”
The intent behind his words sent a shiver down your spine, and you leaned against his chest. Letting the soothing caress of his hands on your skin draw out the last of your high. He seemed pleased, his energy shifting to something more tempered. More controlled. Like you truly were a salve on his wounds. The question left your lips before you could stop them.
“Will the island be alright, now?”
He smiled at you mischievously, drawing you in for a softer kiss this time.
“As long as you continue to worship at my altar and satiate my hunger.”
You shouldn’t be in the basement. But damned if you aren’t curious. Incensed at being forbidden from parts of your own home. And bored.
The door opens with a creak. The key, worn and unassuming, twists with a groan. The dust is thick with years of neglect, and rises with little puffs as you step through it.
It’s a small basement. Lab equipment to one side. Bookshelf and mouldy works to another. So your eyes land on the creature quite immediately.
“What on earth,” you whisper. But you’re moving before you can consider the answer.
The creature before you is unlike anything you’ve seen, and while it’s covered in a layer of fur and its eyes are large and insectoid (are those wings tucked tight against its back?), it's clearly no beast.
Curled in on itself, one of it’s legs tethered to the ground, hands (fuck, those hands are too human) caging an injury on it’s torso: it’s a pitiful sight.
It shuffles back when you near it, but you kneel, pausing only a moment as it chirps at you, the sound a question – and a warning. It’s large, and even sitting with its knees clutched to its chest its head sits above yours.
“What did he do to you?”
Because it’s no question that this is why you’ve been forbidden from the basement. This is why your grandfather forbade you from leaving your room at night, and why he’s always ignored certain questions you’d asked.
For a moment you’re torn between going for the injury and going for the rope. You hesitate, going over your options.
The wound is clotted and old, and you know little about first aid, other than stopping the bleeding.
The rope, however, is mundane in appearance. You wonder why the creature hadn’t set itself free until your fingers graze the fibres, and your hand jerks away with a sting.
A red welt raises where you’d touched the rope. You stare at the creature’s ankle with horror – the fur and flesh beneath the tether is blistered and burnt. The fur is missing in patches, damaged badly.
“I’ll be back,” you promise, before eyeing the lab equipment.
Glassware, a burner, metal instruments – none of it is particularly familiar to you, but the set of tongs and the scalpels look useful.
You snatch them up and return to the creature – it looks more and more like a giant moth upon closer inspection. It’s wings which twitch and shudder at your scrutiny, are beautifully patterned, and covered in a thick later of some kind of dust. The creature – also unnervingly humanoid in shape – wears no clothes, but its short fuzzy fur is thick enough to obscure its bodily features.
It chirps again the sound higher in pitch, almost alarmed when you return, and rears back as far as the tether will allow.
You wince at the implication, and hold one of your hands out in supplication. “I’m going to cut the rope. Will you let me?”
It grows still at your words, and you wonder how much it understands.
It’d be easier to cut from where you are, but then that’d leave the moth creature with a ring of potentially magical rope stuck around its ankle, and you doubt it’d let you close enough to help once it’s loose.
Slowly you close the distance. It allows the movement, though visibly tenses when you pick up the tongs. You use the metal to lift the rope from its leg, and it lets out a hiss.
The scalpel is a poor choice, but it does the job. Frustratingly, slowly, you pick at the threads until the rope comes apart and falls from the creature.
For a moment the pair of you are still.
You dare to meet its eyes, curious as to what it’ll do next. It seems equally hesitant to break the tension, staring at you with an intensity that’s almost unnerving.
A thump from upstairs jolts you from the moment, and like a bolt the creature is standing, fur on end and wings fluttering with unease.
“There should be a back door,” you whisper, scanning the area with mounting unease.
The basement is small, but you’d seen external door during your trips around the grounds. With three of the walls apparently bare and the fourth leading back to the house, you frown.
You eye the bookshelf and move to shove it aside. Several sheets of paper flutter to the ground, and you curse, bracing yourself and pushing harder.
The shelf moves with a sudden lurch when a set of hands appear above your own, and the heat of another body slots behind yours. You don’t have any time to start at the creature’s proximity, though, because the door comes into view. It’s not locked – thank god – but the bilco doors at the top of the stairs are barred shut.
There’s more noise from upstairs, and your breathing hitches. You’d be in trouble if he knew you were poking around in the basement. And you shuddered to think of what he’d do to you if he found out you’d freed his ‘pet’.
You claw at the wood – it's nailed to the door and you let out a despairing whimper.
The creature pushes you aside, digs its fingers into the rotting wood, and pulls it free with a loud groan and a crack.
Those are footsteps on the stairs – your grandfather is entering the basement.
“Go, go, go,” you whisper, shoving the creature on the arm.
The bilco doors shudder open, creaking in protest, just as your grandfather swings the basement door open and lets out a shout.
You don’t really have time to process what happens next. The creature wraps an arm around your waist and holds you against its chest. You don’t have a chance to marvel at it’s strength, or kick your legs as your feet leave the ground.
Then it moves. With unnatural speed it bounds a few steps across the estate grounds before jumping into the air, wings snapping open before launching you into flight.
You’d shriek if it weren’t for the hand that presses against your face, covering you nose to jaw. Crushed against the creature you still loop your arms around its neck, terrified of the sudden drop beneath you.
The fear doesn’t abate, but after a few minutes of flight you grow used to the position, and your trust that the creature won’t drop you grows. You realise that it had saved you from your grandfather. From having to explain away your misdeeds. Your guilt.
When the creature sets you down at the edge of the estate grounds, you know you can still go back. That if you sneak into your bed right now, you can continue your life of moderate luxury without fear of consequence.
Nobody has to know what you’d done.
You hesitate to step out of its grasp.
It chirps a question at you and you swallow.
Grandfather will have discovered the creature is missing. What will he do first? You’re not that great a suspect. He won’t go to your room immediately. Will he give chase? Summon a tracker? A mage?
Either way, morning come he’d be making your life miserable. You might escape blame but he’ll still be in a rage for gods-only-know how long. Breaking your things. Beating the staff. Perhaps even locking you in your room again.
“I don’t want to go back,” you murmur. Further consideration isn’t really needed.
The creature tilts its head. Lets out a low grumbling chirp, accompanied by a shrug. And opens its arms to you.
You loop your arms back around its neck and it lets out another noise – this one more like a purr. Apparently you’re welcome to go with it.
Content - Just a really fluffy short, minor hurt/comfort
AN - I know I have requests I’m working on, but enjoy this cute piece I just wrote. My Secret Santa did seem to forget about me, but writing this made me feel better about it lol.
In which your Secret Santa forgets about you, but the orc you work with refuses to let you go giftless this year.
You tried not to make a big deal out of it, you really did. It was just some stupid Secret Santa event your work held every year. Gift giving was one of your favorite parts of the holidays, you loved watching people’s excitement as they opened their gifts. Your work did a week-long Secret Santa. Smaller, cheaper gifts every day up until Friday. Then you would receive a nicer gift on the last day, and try to figure out who your gifter was.
The catch?
Your Secret Santa seemed to forget you existed.
It was three days into the event, and each day passed without a gift on your desk.
You’d forced the initial confusion into the back of your mind and chose instead to focus distantly on your chosen coworker. Sandra, an older lady that had been working at the office longer than you were alive. She loved caramels and socks, so you put together a bunch of little gifts of different caramels and fuzzy socks.
The third day turned your confusion into a bit of hurt. Had you been forgotten about? Did your Secret Santa pick your name and change their mind about the event?
Your shift had consisted mostly of overthinking the entire event, worrying your lower lip between your teeth until it was raw.
It wasn’t until Torig — the orc who sat in the cubicle across from yours— cleared his throat in a way that dragged your attention from your fog. He was a huge orc, with deep green skin and shining tusks. His sleek black hair was always pushed back or intricately tied into a braid against his head. He wore heavy silver rings and always had nicely pressed clothes.
You two became close quickly, and not just because the two of you had orientation together years ago. Torig was a gentle giant, the best listener during lunch breaks, and the subject of your thoughts a lot more recently.
Today, he looked worried about you. “You’re going to chew your lip off,” he said in a low voice, so as to not disturb your coworkers. “What’s wrong?”
You sighed softly, pushing your chair back away from the desk so you could spin and face him.
“It’s stupid,” you prefaced, holding a finger up to him that silently said, ‘do not judge me.’ “But I haven’t received any gifts yet.”
The second the words left your mouth you felt ridiculous. But Torig’s expression softened, and he shook his head at you.
“You love this holiday stuff, though. It’s not stupid to be upset about it.”
Even though it wasn’t much, that little reassurance made you feel better for the rest of your shift. You managed to put it out of your mind and get work done.
The next day, a neat little box sat on your desk, a crude attempt at a bow resting atop the lid. You couldn’t fight the smile as you dropped into your seat and read the tag.
You recognized Torig’s handwriting immediately. The loose, curved loops and the way he refused to dot his I’s in Merry Christmas.
When you slid the lid off, you felt your heart melt. It was a necklace. The pendant seemingly handmade from silver and wire, twisted and pinched into the intricate design of a tree. You told yourself not to tear up at your desk, and clasped the necklace around your neck without a second thought.
You caught the pleased smile from Torig out of the corner of your eye when he came in later that day. When he thought you weren’t looking.
During lunch, you sought out the corner table you two sat at every day in the small break room. He looked at you as he bit into a roll, big brown eyes lighting up as they dropped to the pendant resting in the dip of your throat.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to, but thank you,” you said softly, playfully nudging his foot with yours beneath the table.
A look flashed over his face, but disappeared in an instance.
“Don’t thank me, I wanted to do it. I don’t like seeing you sulking all day.” If anyone else said it, you would’ve thought they were jabbing at you. But when you met his gaze again, you could tell he was genuine.
The big guy didn’t want you upset.
It warmed your heart to hear him say that. Torig had always been kind to you, from the moment you interrupted orientation because your tire exploded halfway on your way to the office. He’d had a rough time acclimating to the environment and the people. And the people took time to warm up to him. You’d been his loudest defender, insisting he eat lunch with you, claiming the cubicle across from yours and demanding he set up there.
You can’t remember when exactly you started falling for him, but it felt so natural.
Friday rolled around quicker than you thought, and you weren’t surprised this time to show up to your desk without a gift sitting there.
You’d gotten Sandra the rest of the book series you caught her reading during her breaks. The excitement in her face was enough to smooth over the burn. It wasn’t about receiving anything, just the satisfaction of giving.
The first portion of your day went by in a foggy blur— paperwork, emails, a meeting about statistics and goals for the week after you all returned from Christmas breaks.
When Torig arrived in the afternoon, he had a bundle of something in his arms. His hair was a bit wilder than he usually kept it, sticking up in odd places like he’d slept on it and couldn’t bother grooming it. His shirt was missing the top button, and his trousers were not ironed.
This was the least composed you’d ever seen the orc.
He loomed over you in the entryway of your cubicle, looking sheepish as he held the bundle out to you.
“For me?” You asked, taken aback by his ruffled appearance and the item in his hands. When he only nodded once, you grabbed at the bundle.
It tumbled into your lap, and you let out a quiet noise of surprise. It was a scarf, made up of your favorite colors. A soft and plush knitted scarf with little strands of fluffy jutting out from the ends.
“I was actually making that for you before I found out your Secret Santa flaked out on you,” he admitted timidly, his face turning a deeper shade of green as you stared down at the scarf in your lap. “I stayed up late to finish it, ended up falling asleep at the end, and had to do the rest before I came in. It’s not a lot, I know—“
You stood up abruptly, making him pause and take a startled step back. When you met his gaze again, your eyes were watery. You stepped into his space and leaned into him, arms squeezing him tightly.
“Thank you, this is everything. Your gifts mean so much because you made them,” you mumbled against his shirt.
His arms slowly wrapped around you, his tusk grazing the top of your head as he inhaled. A soft rumble in his chest as he replied.
“I have another gift, but it’s completely up to you. You can say no, and I won’t hold anything against you,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. You pulled back from the hug just enough to give him a curious look. He just smiled down at you.
“Let me take you to dinner tonight? I’ll make reservations somewhere nice and I’ll pay for the entire night. You just have to sit there and look pretty.”
You blinked.
Torig just asked you to go to dinner with him. The giant orc with the soft temperament that you’ve been pining after for so long wanted to take you out.
“Like a date?” You asked stupidly, and he chuckled in response.
“Yes, please. Like a date.”
A delighted smile crossed your face as you nodded eagerly, meeting his gaze with a soft blush decorating your cheeks.
Imma be honest guys, I’ve been kicking my feet and getting absolutely Freaked Out over this Cthulhu x Reader request that I’ve been writing. Y’all aren’t ready for this one.
The minotaur peacekeeper cages you against the citrus tree. Your basket falls, fruit rolling at your feet. Petals dance around you, falling from the force of your body's impact against the trunk in a fragrant rain.
"Tell me, little novice," he growls, his breath hot and wet against your ear. "Tell me what you imagined."
You can only whimper, because-- oh, gods, he can't ask that of you. Your gift is only for those blessed by your god, only those chosen to receive his light. Even if the great bull has, impossibly, seen straight through you, to the heart of your desire for him. Somehow seen your need, watching him day after day on his patrol.
Your robe falls away as he flips you around, pressing you against the tree. He's so huge, you can feel him against your back, hard and insistent.
"Tell me," he repeats, more urgently this time. Your robe slides away as he paws at your thigh, exposing miles of skin to dappled sunlight. "Did you imagine me slipping into the temple in the dead of night? When your god cannot help you? Or did you picture it like this?"
The minotaur, hooves planted firmly, rolls his hips even as he pulls you closer. Firm. Bruising.
"Is this what you wanted? Did you imagine, little novice, me bending you over this very tree? Taking you under Apollo's own sky, where anyone could see?"
Content - no use of y/n, very sexy older werewolf woof, cunnilingus as an apology, some scent kink, unedited.
AN - thank you lovelies for waiting so patiently for this <3 my adhd has been making it SOO hard for me to focus but I finally got my meds back so I should be pushing out more writing frequently. if you like my writing and want to fuel my caffeine consumption, feel free to add a little something here! enjoy~
Toni’s Lot— the automotive shop you’d been working at for a couple of months now— loomed before you looking rather abandoned in the ominous flickering street lamps. And why were you here, exactly?
Well, your attempts to win over your boss have been unsuccessful thus far. It was still a mystery as to why he kept avoiding you like the plague, and you were fed up with the games. You didn’t even do anything to the man.
Antonio Perez, a burly, tattooed werewolf that owned the shop and absolutely detested you. Your coworkers kept trying to convince you he hated everyone. That his grumpy nature was baked into his bones. And you almost believed it, if not for the way he acted around the other werewolves in the garage. They were a pack, bonded like brothers and sisters.
And you were just a human that got in his way.
It wasn’t like you were useless around the shop. Quite the opposite— your hands were small enough to fit in cramped spaces, you were flexible in a way that had them cramming you up into the underside of cars and frameworks. You were friendly, customers loved interacting with you whenever they needed to schedule something. You showed up early and worked late.
And yet he still wouldn’t acknowledge you privately for longer than a few minutes. His eyes would burn into the back of your head when you would work. An occasional bark of orders, a rushed explanation for something you had a question about. Nothing that lingered or stuck. If he accidentally bumped into you or brushed your hand with his, he’d retract like he was shot. Always having this almost pained look on his face.
Your roommates were telling you to just get over it, let it roll off your shoulders. ‘Maybe you stink to him. You do have a unique scent for a human.’ Was what one of them said.. The leopard hybrid of all people. You had replied by saying that was a ridiculous reason to hate someone.
There reached a point that you couldn’t take it anymore. You asked around and found out that Toni was staying late tonight to work on a last minute fix to one of the cars you’d checked in today. The perfect opportunity to corner this guy and interrogate him for his weird avoidant behavior. You had some leftover pot roast from dinner tonight, and figured you would butter him up a little before asking the winning question.
So, with a final quiet pep talk, you slid through the front office and into the back of the garage. There was some music playing softly in the background where the stereo was tucked away; a loose, rhythmic bass weaved through the air as you walked further.
He came into sight almost immediately, hunched over the hood of Miss Calder’s 1970 Ford F-100. An ancient beast that probably should have been scrapped ten years prior, yet Toni always insisted on tending to the repairs himself. Miss Calder was a sweet old lady, and probably single-handedly funded Toni’s work with the amount of issues going on with that truck.
You’d be a big liar if you said you weren’t attracted to Antonio Perez. In the past, you only ever went out with other humans. Not because they were your type, but because the town you were living in before you moved here wasn’t the most diverse. In this city, hybrids and monsters outnumbered humans. Hell, you were the first human addition to the shop. A fact that surprised most of your coworkers in the beginning.
Toni had an oil-stained rag thrown over his shoulder, his salt and pepper hair slicked back and wet with a sheen of sweat. His back was a display of wired muscles and scars, covered by a thin T-shirt. It was hiked up a little bit, and your face heated up at the sight of his cargo jeans riding on his hips. His tail swished slowly behind him, thick with the same salt and pepper fur. Before your gaze could dip lower, his throat clearing made you startle out of your shameless staring.
“You’re supposed to be off today.”
His voice was low and smooth, much softer than it was when he was yelling at everyone and tossing parts around. As if he was trying to preserve the peace of the night. His strikingly silver eyes found yours immediately, sending a shiver of anticipation up your spine as you stepped forward into his workspace. He tensed immediately, huffing heavily while his gaze dropped to the food in your hands.
“I brought you some leftovers. I know Miss Calder’s truck fights back, so I figured you would be here a while. It’s just pot roast—“ the words came out faster than you intended them too, fingers twitching nervously over the warmed plastic of the container.
Before you could finish, clawed fingers brushed yours as he slid the Tupperware from your hands. He brought it to his nose and inhaled, a deep rumble of approval sounding from him. He set it on the counter behind him among the tools he’d rifled out of the tool chest.
When his eyes found yours again, his expression was different. “Thank you. You didn’t need to do that,” he relented, dipping his head awkwardly. He was still so tense, shoulders squared and jaw set. Much more than when you first entered.
Yes, it stung. It felt like a constant rejection. Not even acquaintances, just a boss and his employee that he clearly didn’t enjoy being around. You pursed your lips and furrowed your brows as you stepped even closer.
“Sir, can I ask—“
“C’mere and help me get this damned belt out. It was so worn out that it snapped and got tangled up around the tubes connected to the engine. I can’t get a grip without puncturing on of ‘em.” He interrupted you without a thought, gesturing for you to stand beside him and pointing to the culprit.
You didn’t protest, pulling up your hair into a quick tie and sidling up beside him. He towered over you by nearly a foot, standing at around 6’8”. There was still about a foot of distance between you two, but you could feel the heat radiating off of him. You could feel his gaze on you, sharp and analyzing every single movement of yours.
“And stop calling me Sir. It’s Toni. You should stop addressing me so formally,” he insisted firmly while you reached into the hood and began to untangle the belt.
You fell silent, a hint of irritation crawling over you at his words. But your fingers pulled and shimmied the rubber until it wouldn’t budge anymore. Pulling back, you caught him staring at you again. Not the truck. Not the belt he needed help with. You, your body, your eyes when you looked back at him.
“Are you just going to pretend like you haven’t been avoiding me the entire time I’ve been here, then?” You find yourself asking without taking a moment to think, words heated and bouncing between them. “You’re going to make conversation with me, keep staring at me. But the second the garage is full and I want to speak and work around you, you act like I’m insufferable to be around. This is one of the longest interactions you’ve had with me.”
He winced at your words as if you slapped him. But you would not relent, months of pent up frustration and confusion rumbling out of your mouth as you reached over him to grab a pair of industrial shears to cut the rest of the belt out.
“You’re going to insist that I call you Toni when you never even respond to what I say half of the time. You hire me, the only human in your garage, and then grimace at me like you can’t stand that I exist here. Why do you hate me so much?”
The words left you in a whirlwind of breath, aggressively cutting at the belt and yanking it out as he tensed even more beside you. Clearly, he hadn’t expected you to be as outright as you were. But you weren’t just some delicate human, you wanted to be taken seriously. Respected. By him especially.
As you pulled the remaining pieces of the belt out, he let out a heavy breath. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, worried about what would reflect back at you.
But he moved closer, not quite touching you. His arm brushed against yours and you swore both of you inhaled sharply at the contact. He cleared his throat again, pulling the belt from your hands and discarding them.
“I don’t hate you,” he started, words rough and strained as if he had to force them out. Not a very convincing intro. You let out a dry, short laugh, shaking your head as you reached behind him to grab the new belt.
His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist before you could grasp it, wrenching a gasp from your lips as you eyed him finally. Toni’s eyes were fixated on your face, flicking over the details like he was trying to commit it to memory. His tongue dragged over his lips, revealing those dangerous canines and drawing a shiver out of you. The werewolf seemed to struggle with finding his next words.
“Toni—“ you pushed, his name coming out as a breath. You watched the effect it had on him immediately, rippling through his body and causing that same pained expression he seemed to have with you. He shook his head, grip tightening on yours wrist a fraction.
“You were a pretty little thing walking into my office with your resume. Y’know, I turn away every human that comes to me asking for a job. They’ve got big egos, like to treat us like domesticated dogs.” His hand left your wrist and a fire lingered, creeping up your skin and sending a sudden spike of want through you.
That was the first time he had touched you. And you wanted him to do it again.
“Then why did you?”
Toni took a deep breath in, and the exhale came out shaky. He held out a hand, palm sideways. Hesitant, unsure, but inviting. You didn’t think twice when you stepped closer. His hand clamped down on your waist, claws digging into your jacket and pricking your skin only slightly. The feeling made you shudder, and that made Toni growl softly.
“Because you’re different. You smiled at me and leaned over the counter to hand me your resume. You look small and breakable, but you’re fiery and tougher than I gave you credit for and it fuckin’ scared me because I wanted you from the first second. I couldn’t even think about saying no to you.”
The admission— the confession— hung between you two. His hand on your waist suddenly felt hotter than it did a second ago. Your face felt hot, and when you raised your hand to press it to your cheek, his eyes followed the movement. You had been struggling for over two months to figure out what he was thinking, and never once did you think it was because he wanted you.
Your silence only prompted him to keep talking. His grip on you tightening like he was afraid you were going to change your mind and disappear. But your feet were cemented to the ground.
“I’m an older guy, a seasoned werewolf that should know how to control himself. But god even your scent drives me crazy. I could smell you the second you walked through the office doors. You smell like temptation, like I need to bend you over and claim you before someone else beats me to it. So I stayed away from you, I tried to keep space because I have the worst time keeping my instincts in check when it involves you.”
His other hand closed around your waist, and a molten heat coiled in your lower stomach. The thought of being bent over one of the countless work benches and being claimed by Toni, your boss and the only thing consuming your thoughts for months, made your legs shake slightly.
Such a stupid reason to avoid you, when you no doubt would have thrown yourself at his feet if he asked. The relief of him not hating you, mixed with the adrenaline and desire his words were emboldening you. You stepped into his personal bubble, hands sliding over his chest with only the tremble of your hands giving away your feelings. Tilting your head up to meet his gaze, you watched his pupils dilate. Silver nearly swallowed by black.
“You should have talked to me, idiot. I might’ve given you what you wanted,” you mumbled, fingers creeping up to brush against the fluff of fur that escaped the top of his shirt. His gaze dropped down to your hand and he pulled your hips against his. What had to be the biggest bulge you felt in your entire life now pressed hot against your lower stomach.
You were so close to him that he seemed to forget about trying to stay away. His head dipped down and nuzzled into the crook of your neck, sending a jolt of electricity through you. He was breathing heavily, taking in your scent. A groan that quickly turned into a growl punched out of him, and within a fraction of a second he was slamming the hood of Miss Calder’s truck shut and propping you on top of it.
“Fuck, pretty thing. D’you even know how good you smell?”
The words came out as a growl deep in his chest, and had your legs opening for him to push himself between instantly. A soft whine escaped you, the sound only encouraging him. That cold werewolf you’d been shown over the last couple of months melted away into someone different. The way he looked at you was almost reverent, like you were divinity he had the honor of drinking from.
His hands returned to you, slipping around the hem of the jeans you were wearing. You were eye-level with him on top of the hood, face flushed and eyes fluttering from surprise. When you bit your lip, he huffed in offense and pushed forward to capture your mouth in his.
It was a feverish kiss. Hot and messy like he couldn’t wait a second longer to lay claim to your skin. After a moment it slowed, his tongue teasing and prodding and tasting you with careful consideration.
When he finally dragged himself away, your lips were glossy and parted slightly with the sheen of spit. You were breathing just as heavy as he was now, and the aching between your legs was becoming unbearable.
The leftovers on the table behind you both seemed to be completely forgotten about. Toni had chosen a different meal for the night, and /you/ gave him the choice. He slid his fingers around to the front of your jeans and scraped at the button with a drag of his claw.
“Let me taste you, doll. Please let me put my mouth on you,” he begged, voice rough and ruined already. You held so much power over him, and it was intoxicating. You couldn’t possibly say no to his sweet pleads, nodding and letting out a soft ‘mhm’.
He actually took his time undoing your jeans and yanking them off along with your underwear. The cold of metal kissed the skin on your thighs and made you hiss, and he looked apologetic for only a second before returning a hungry gaze to the slick mess between your legs.
A clawed finger gently ran over your slit, the satisfied growl emitting from him making you whimper. The pad of his thumb found your clit immediately, making slow circles that made your vision dim slightly. You let out a choked gasp as you bucked into his hand, craving more friction than what he was giving you. But his other hand planted you firmly against the hood. A small part of you was worried about denting it, but every other part of you couldn’t give more of a shit.
Toni watched your expression with a mixture of awe and pure instinctual need. His tail thumped roughly against the work table behind him, and his attention was fixated only on you. His hands trembled with the strain of keeping himself from ripping the rest of your clothes off and feeling your soft skin beneath his claws and mouth.
He sank down, his face at your navel. You felt his breath fan out against your hips and core, making you squirm against his grip.
When his mouth fixed onto you, you saw stars. His tongue dipped between your folds and collected the wet slick that only kept gushing at his attention. The sounds he made were so lewd it made your face burn. His face was buried between your thighs, and your fingers tangled into his messy hair. When you tugged, he growled and slipped a tongue inside of you, thick and hot that left you melting against him.
You found yourself reaching your peak faster than ever, only aided by the way he’d pull back for a moment just to send a slew of praise at you.
‘You taste so good, sweetheart.’
‘That’s right, keep riding my face like it’s made for you.’
‘Fuck, thank you.’
‘Can’t wait to fit you on my knot, pretty thing.’
When he said that, his thumb resumed its teasing pace on your clit while he ate you like his last meal. And you only managed to let out a bubble of gibberish as a warning.
“Toni— Gonna.. Oh my- Ton-Toni—“
Your vision went dark for a minute as your orgasm ripping through you. Your body trembled against Toni as he continued licking and sucking at you, only slowing to a stop when the moans turning into whines of overstimulation.
You didn’t have to mourn his absence for very long, because he pulled you into his arms immediately. Scooping you up off of the hood of the truck and holding you against him, you couldn’t help but burrow into the warmth. His hand smoothed over your hair and his lips found yours again. The kiss he planted was short and sweet, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. You moaned softly into his mouth.
“You did so good, sweetheart. Can’t thank you enough for letting me taste you after I was so rude,” he breathed against you. You hummed in response, fingers trying to trail down and feel the bulge that strained against his cargo pants. But he growled a soft warning to you and shook his head.
“Not here. Not tonight. I don’t deserve that yet.” His voice was rough, but he said it gently enough to let you know wasn’t rejecting you. Just controlling himself.
You hummed in response, blinking at him before tapping him to put you down. You shimmied your bottoms back on as he watched, the tension in his body unwound and expression open. It felt like an apology, the way he handled you just now. You couldn’t help but feel empty, eyes taking in the sight of how his length strained against his jeans. Part of you wanted to put caution in the wind and sink onto him.
But the anticipation of ‘not yet’ overpowered your immediate need to be filled by him.
Not in this dirty garage. Not when you just finished expressing your hurt to him.
He wanted to make it up to you first.
You smiled at him, and he relaxed even more, a small smile ghosting his own lips as he ruffled your hair. “You might have to reheat the leftover,” you said with a quiet giggle. The sound made his eyes light up, and he seemed to finally remember the leftovers.
Maybe I'm weird but if I stumble upon fanfic that isn't my taste or that I don't like, I literally just move on and don't say anything because someone else might like it and it costs me nothing to not be a jerk on the internet.
Okay, I’ll cave and answer this because I’m also super excited for the requests I’ve been working on.
The first is a continuation/extended version of my werewolf drabble. I’m almost finished with this for those of you frothing at the mouth over it.
The second is a Lava God x Fem!Reader (very excited when I received this)
Third is a fluffier sort of hurt/comfort Husband!Werewolf x Reader that will probably come later since I want it to be accurate to the request.
And finally, I JUST received a Cthulhu x Reader and I am absolutely going to write this you guys are feeding me so many good ideas already, you just had to whip out the Lovecraftian monsters for me.
But yes, these are the requests you guys can look forward to coming out within the next couple of weeks!
Characters: F!Human/M!Orc
Content: SFW, Slice of Life, Single Parent, Divorce, Overcoming Prejudice, Found Family, Domestic Fluff
Spice Level: Mild
Wordcount: ~8,000
Notes: Posted on Patreon well before it got posted here on Tumblr.
After her divorce, Sarah moves to a quiet neighborhood hoping for a fresh start, but must confront her own prejudices—and her ex-husband's—when her helpful orcish neighbor Thoran becomes an important part of her and her daughter Lily's lives.
Sarah's arms ached as she stared at the mountain of boxes still stacked in the moving truck. Through the front window of the small ranch house, she could see her daughter Lily arranging stuffed animals on her new bed, already making the space her own. Six years old and resilient—more resilient than Sarah felt most days.
"That's all I can do, ma'am," the mover said, clipboard in hand. He gestured at the remaining boxes and furniture. "Buddy called in sick. Just sign here and I'll be on my way."
Sarah's stomach dropped. She'd paid for two movers, and now she was stuck with half her possessions still in the truck and an angry six-year-old if she had to sleep another night on an air mattress. She scrawled her signature and watched the truck rumble away down Maple Street, leaving behind a trailer full of boxes.
The neighborhood was exactly what she'd hoped for when she'd scrolled through listings late at night, unable to sleep in their cramped apartment across town. Tree-lined streets. Well-maintained homes. The kind of place where kids could play outside without her having a panic attack every five minutes.
A place to start over.
If she could actually get moved in.
Sarah was eyeing her couch and wondering if she could somehow drag it inside by herself when she heard footsteps behind her.
"Looks like you could use a hand."
She spun around to find her neighbor from the house to the left standing at the end of her driveway. He was massive—at least seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block out the afternoon sun. Gray-green skin stretched over corded muscle. Tusks curved up from his lower jaw, and his dark hair was pulled back in a thick braid. An orc.
Sarah's first instinct was to refuse, to say she had it handled. She'd heard the warnings about orcs her whole life—hot-tempered, unpredictable, dangerous. And now one was offering to come into her home, to be alone with her and Lily.
But she looked at the couch, then at the boxes, then at this stranger who was keeping a careful, respectful distance, his hands visible at his sides.
"I..." She swallowed. "That would actually be really helpful. The other mover didn't show."
"Thoran," he said, taking a step closer. "I live next door. Been watching you struggle with those boxes for the last twenty minutes."
"Sarah." She managed a smile that felt shaky. "And my daughter Lily is inside."
It wasn't subtle—she was making sure he knew she wasn't alone, that someone would notice if something happened. His expression shifted, something that might have been understanding or maybe sadness flickering across his features.
"I'll just help you get the heavy stuff in," he said quietly. "You can tell me where you want it, and I'll leave you to unpack."
Sarah nodded, her heart hammering. She was probably being paranoid. This was a nice neighborhood. He was just being neighborly. And she really, really needed help with that couch.
"Okay. Thank you."
Thoran moved past her—she caught a scent of earth and grass and something unexpectedly pleasant, like vanilla—and stepped up into the trailer. He lifted one end of the couch like it weighed nothing.
"Where do you want this?"
"Living room. Through the door, straight ahead."
She watched him maneuver the couch through the doorway with surprising grace for someone so large. No bumped walls, no scrapes. He set it down exactly where she pointed, then stepped back immediately, giving her space.
"What else?" he asked.
Over the next hour, Sarah directed while Thoran hauled. Her dresser, Lily's bookshelf, the kitchen table, box after box after box. He worked steadily, efficiently, never once complaining or acting like she should be grateful. Just... helping.
Lily appeared in the doorway after the first few trips, staring up at Thoran with wide eyes.
"Lily, this is Mr. Thoran from next door," Sarah said quickly. "He's helping us move in."
"You're really big," Lily said with the blunt honesty of six-year-olds.
Thoran paused, a box labeled "KITCHEN - FRAGILE" in his arms. He crouched down slightly, making himself smaller. "Nice to meet you, Lily. Your mom says you have a lot of stuffed animals."
"Forty-two," Lily said seriously. "Do you want to see?"
"Maybe after we get everything inside," Sarah interjected. "Mr. Thoran is being very kind with his time."
"Just Thoran," he said, straightening. He carried the box to the kitchen and set it on the counter with impressive care.
When the last box was finally inside, Sarah stood in her living room surrounded by chaos and felt tears prick her eyes. Not from sadness, but from sheer exhausted relief.
"Thank you," she said, and her voice came out rougher than she intended. "I don't know what I would have done. Seriously. Thank you."
Thoran shrugged, looking uncomfortable with her gratitude. "It's what neighbors do." He moved toward the door, then hesitated. "If you need help with anything else—furniture assembly, whatever—I'm right next door. Number seventeen."
"I appreciate that." Sarah followed him to the door. "Really."
He stepped out onto the porch, and Sarah noticed for the first time how carefully he'd been moving through her space. Nothing knocked over, nothing out of place. Considerate. Respectful.
"Welcome to the neighborhood," Thoran said, then walked back to his own house.
Sarah closed the door and leaned against it, her hands shaking slightly. She'd just let a strange orc into her home. Had let him carry her things, be near her daughter. Every warning she'd ever heard screamed at her that she'd been reckless.
But he'd just... helped. Been kind. Left when the work was done.
"Mama, he was nice," Lily said from the hallway. "Can we give him cookies?"
"We don't have any cookies yet, baby. Maybe once we're more settled."
Through the window, Sarah watched Thoran return to his own driveway, back to unloading his truck. His property was immaculate—the grass a lush carpet of green, flower beds overflowing with color, bushes trimmed into neat shapes. It was easily the nicest yard on the block.
Sarah turned away from the window and looked at the boxes filling her new home. Her arms ached less now. The couch was in place. The worst was done.
Maybe this neighborhood, this fresh start, would be okay after all.
Over the next few days, Sarah fell into the exhausting rhythm of unpacking and job hunting. She'd taken a week off from her waitressing job to make the move, and money was already tight. The divorce settlement had been enough for the down payment on this house, but barely. Every dollar mattered.
She tried not to think about Jason, about the way he'd looked at her when he said he needed "space to find himself." About how that space had apparently included his twenty-three-year-old dental assistant. At least Jason was consistent with his every-other-weekend custody schedule and the child support payments. She'd give him that much—he showed up for Lily, even if he'd failed at showing up for their marriage.
She saw Thoran outside several times over those first few days. Each time, he'd wave—a simple, friendly gesture—and she'd wave back, still feeling slightly guilty about her initial fear. He'd been nothing but helpful, and here she was, jumping at shadows.
On the third morning in the new house, Sarah woke to the sound of a lawn mower. She checked the clock: 7:30 AM. Groaning, she pulled on her robe and shuffled to the kitchen to start coffee.
Through the window over the sink, she could see Thoran pushing an industrial mower across his front lawn, moving in precise, careful rows. He was already showered and dressed for work—she could tell by the way his hair was damp, catching the morning light.
As Sarah watched, he shut off the mower and pulled off his work gloves. He walked to the side of his house and returned with a watering can, moving among his flower beds with surprising delicacy for someone so large. He crouched beside a rosebush heavy with deep red blooms, examining the leaves, gently adjusting a wayward stem.
There was something almost tender in the gesture.
Sarah poured her coffee, remembering how carefully he'd set down her fragile boxes, how he'd crouched to speak to Lily at her level. The same gentleness.
She was still standing at the window when Thoran looked up and caught her watching. Sarah felt her cheeks heat, but he just smiled—she could tell even from this distance—and raised his hand in that same easy wave.
Sarah waved back and quickly moved away from the window, feeling oddly flustered.
Lily made her first friend on the fourth day—a girl named Mia from two doors down who was also in first grade. The two of them spent the afternoon drawing with chalk on the driveway, their laughter echoing through the quiet street.
Sarah was sweeping the front porch when Mia's mother, Jessica, came to collect her daughter. She was a friendly woman in yoga pants and a bright smile, and Sarah felt herself relax slightly under her warm greeting.
"So glad you moved in," Jessica said. "This is such a great street for kids. Everyone looks out for each other."
"It seems really nice," Sarah agreed. "Very different from the city. Everyone's been so welcoming."
"Oh, you'll love it here." Jessica glanced toward Thoran's house, and her smile tightened slightly. "I saw Thoran helped you move in. That was... nice of him."
"He was a lifesaver," Sarah said. "One of the movers didn't show up. I don't know what I would have done without his help."
"Just..." Jessica lowered her voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "Be careful, okay? I mean, I'm sure he was perfectly polite, but you know how they can be. Hot-tempered. And he's so big—he could hurt someone without even meaning to. I just think it's better to keep some distance, especially with Lily."
Sarah felt something twist in her chest. "Has he done something?"
"Oh no, nothing like that. He keeps to himself mostly. It's just... you never know. Better safe than sorry." Jessica brightened her smile again. "Anyway, Lily is adorable. Mia can't stop talking about her."
After Jessica left, Sarah stood on the porch, watching Thoran's house. The roses along his front fence swayed in the breeze, their red petals luminous in the late afternoon sun. She thought about the way he'd crouched down to speak to Lily. How he'd asked where she wanted things placed, never once assuming. How he'd left immediately when the work was done.
Hot-tempered. Better safe than sorry.
Sarah had heard those phrases before, usually followed by statistics she half-remembered from news programs. But she'd also heard similar things said about single mothers, about divorced women, about waitresses who dared to have opinions. Stereotypes were easy. Convenient.
And yet, part of her wondered if Jessica was right. Sarah had let a stranger into her home after knowing him for all of five minutes. What if she'd been reckless? What if she'd put Lily at risk?
The front door of Thoran's house opened, and he emerged carrying his work bag. He caught sight of Sarah on the porch and raised his hand in greeting.
Sarah waved back, watching him load his truck and drive away. He'd been nothing but kind. Nothing but careful.
But Jessica's words lingered, planting seeds of doubt where there had been tentative trust.
The smell hit her on a Tuesday morning.
Sarah had just dropped Lily off at her new school and was heading to her car when the scent stopped her in her tracks. Bread. Fresh-baked bread with hints of honey and butter. Her mouth watered instantly.
She looked around, trying to locate the source. The neighborhood was quiet—most people already at work. Then she noticed the slightly open window on Thoran's house, warm air escaping, carrying that intoxicating aroma with it.
He was baking.
Sarah stood there for a long moment, trying to reconcile the image of her massive orcish neighbor with the domestic act of bread-making. It seemed so... gentle. Unexpected.
She thought about Jessica's warnings, about her own lingering doubts. And then she thought about Thoran crouching down to meet Lily at eye level, about the careful way he'd handled her boxes, about the tenderness with which he tended his roses.
Maybe people were more complicated than the stories told about them.
Sarah got in her car and drove to her job interview, but the smell of fresh bread—and the questions it raised—lingered in her mind all day.
On Friday evening, Sarah was wrestling with the lawnmower she'd bought at a garage sale. It was ancient and temperamental, and after twenty minutes of pulling the starter cord until her arm ached, she was ready to throw it in the trash.
"Having trouble?"
Sarah looked up to find Thoran standing at the edge of her driveway. She'd been so focused on the mower that she hadn't heard him approach. He kept a respectful distance, his hands at his sides.
"This thing is possessed," Sarah said, gesturing at the mower with frustration. "I've been trying to start it for twenty minutes."
"Mind if I take a look?"
Sarah hesitated. Jessica's warnings echoed in her head. But her arms hurt, the grass was getting long, and she had exactly zero mechanical ability. Besides, he'd already been in her house. If he'd wanted to do something terrible, he'd had plenty of opportunity.
"Please," she said, stepping back.
Thoran moved past her—she caught that same scent of earth and grass and vanilla—and crouched beside the mower. Large hands probed the engine with careful precision, moving with the confidence of someone who knew machines intimately.
"Your spark plug's fouled," he said after a moment. "And the air filter's clogged. You got a rag?"
Sarah hurried inside and returned with a dish towel she'd been about to throw away. She watched as Thoran cleaned the spark plug with methodical care, removed the air filter and tapped it clean, checked the oil level. His movements were so careful, so controlled.
"Try it now," he said, standing.
Sarah pulled the cord once. The engine sputtered to life, running smoothly.
"Oh my god." She stared at the mower, then at Thoran. "You're a miracle worker. Thank you so much."
"It's a good mower. Just needs maintenance." He wiped his hands on the rag. "You should change the oil before winter."
"I will. Definitely." Sarah found herself smiling, genuine this time. "I really appreciate this. You've been so helpful since I moved in."
Thoran looked uncomfortable with her gratitude. "It's nothing. Just being neighborly."
"It's not nothing," Sarah insisted. "The move, this—you've gone out of your way. So thank you."
He ducked his head slightly, and Sarah could swear she saw a flush of deeper green spread across his cheeks. "You're welcome."
Sarah watched him walk back to his house, and she realized something had shifted. The fear was still there—a lifetime of warnings didn't disappear overnight—but underneath it was something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.
The following week, Sarah started her new job at a family restaurant downtown. The hours were better than her old place, and the tips were decent. She arranged after-school care for Lily, and for the first time in months, she felt like maybe things were starting to stabilize.
On Wednesday, she came home to find a small package on her doorstep. Inside was a loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper, still faintly warm. No note, but she didn't need one. The bread was golden-brown, the crust crackly, the interior soft and fragrant with honey.
Sarah stood in her kitchen holding the loaf, unexpected tears pricking her eyes. When had anyone last done something kind for her, expecting nothing in return?
She cut a thick slice and slathered it with butter. The bread melted on her tongue, perfect and comforting. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy it.
Later, after Lily was asleep, Sarah stood at her kitchen window. Thoran's house was lit, warm light spilling from the windows. She could see his silhouette moving in what must be the kitchen, and she found herself smiling.
The roses were dying.
Sarah noticed it over the weekend—the beautiful red blooms along Thoran's fence were wilting, leaves turning brown. It seemed wrong, somehow. Those roses had been so vibrant.
On Monday, she saw Thoran in his front yard, staring at the rosebush with an expression of such profound sadness that Sarah felt it in her chest.
She found herself walking over before she could second-guess it.
"Are they sick?" she asked.
Thoran didn't seem surprised by her presence. "Black spot. Fungal infection. I've tried everything, but..." He trailed off, touching a withered petal with one finger. "My mother gave me the cutting when I bought this house. Only thing I have from her garden."
The pain in his voice was unmistakable. Sarah had never been good with plants, but she understood loss.
"Maybe the garden center could help? They might have something stronger."
"Maybe." He didn't sound hopeful.
That evening, Sarah did something impulsive. She drove to the library and checked out three books on roses. She stayed up late reading about black spot, about fungicides and pruning and proper spacing for air circulation.
The next day, armed with information and a determination she couldn't quite explain, she knocked on Thoran's door.
He answered looking surprised, a dish towel over his shoulder and flour dusting his forearms.
"Hi," Sarah said, suddenly feeling foolish. "I, um, I did some research. About black spot. I thought maybe..." She thrust the books toward him.
Thoran took them carefully, his expression unreadable. He flipped through the first book, then looked at her.
"You went to the library for me?"
"It's not a big deal. I just thought—"
"Thank you." His voice was rough. "That's... really kind."
They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Thoran said, "Do you want to come in? I just made cinnamon rolls."
Sarah knew she should say no. She should maintain boundaries, keep things neighborly but distant. That's what she'd always done before.
"I'd love to," she heard herself say.
Thoran's kitchen was spotless and filled with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. Cooling racks covered the counter, laden with perfect spiral rolls glistening with icing. The kitchen itself was surprisingly cozy—copper pots hanging from hooks, herbs growing in pots on the windowsill, a worn cookbook open on the counter.
"This is amazing," Sarah said, accepting a plate. The roll was still warm, the icing melting into the layers. She took a bite and actually moaned. "Oh my god. This is better than the bakery downtown."
A flush of green spread across Thoran's cheeks. "It's just a hobby."
"This is way beyond a hobby. This is..." She took another bite. "Seriously, you could sell these."
"I'm not that good."
"Are you kidding? Thoran, this is incredible."
He ducked his head, but she could see him fighting a smile. They sat at his small kitchen table, and Sarah asked about his landscaping business. He talked about his clients, about the satisfaction of transforming neglected yards, about the peace he found in working with growing things.
"What about you?" he asked. "What brought you to Maple Street?"
Sarah found herself telling him about the divorce, about Jason and his dental assistant, about the cramped apartment and her determination to give Lily stability. She talked more than she'd intended, and Thoran listened without judgment, without pity.
"It's hard," he said simply. "Starting over."
"Yeah." Sarah wiped icing from her fingers. "But this is better. Lily loves her new school. The neighborhood is great. And the neighbors aren't so bad either."
This time, Thoran definitely smiled.
After that, things shifted.
Thoran taught Sarah how to change her oil and replace her air filters. Sarah taught him about the tiny library two blocks over that she'd discovered with Lily. He left baked goods on her doorstep—scones, muffins, braided loaves studded with cheese. She returned his containers with notes of thanks and sometimes dinner leftovers, since she'd noticed he seemed to live on sandwiches when he wasn't baking.
They waved to each other in passing. Exchanged small talk about the weather. It was nice.
Then came the incident with the Hendersons.
Sarah was pulling weeds in her front yard when she heard raised voices from down the street. She looked up to see Thoran standing in front of his truck, which was parked at the curb, while Mr. Henderson gestured angrily.
"—inconsiderate! That thing is an eyesore. This is a nice neighborhood!"
"I'm parked legally," Thoran said, his voice calm but tight. "And I'll be moving it in ten minutes when I'm finished loading."
"You're always parked here with your equipment blocking the view. Some of us take pride in this street."
Sarah saw Thoran's massive hands clench into fists. Saw the tension in his shoulders. She was moving before she thought about it.
"Hi, Mr. Henderson!" She waved cheerfully as she approached. "I was actually hoping to ask Thoran about doing some landscaping for me. Thoran, do you have a minute?"
Both men turned to her. Mr. Henderson looked irritated at the interruption. Thoran's expression was harder to read.
"The Jensons used you, right?" Sarah continued, addressing Thoran but keeping her tone light and public. "Their yard looks amazing. I'd love to get some ideas for my backyard."
"I... yes, I can take a look." Thoran's voice was strained.
"Perfect! Mr. Henderson, you should see what he did with their drainage issues. Completely transformed the space." She beamed at the older man, who had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
"Well. I suppose that's different. Professional work." He cleared his throat. "Just try to be mindful of the parking, would you?"
He walked away, and Sarah turned to Thoran. His hands were still clenched, his jaw tight.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
"You didn't need to do that."
"I know. But he was being a jerk." She paused. "Not the first time?"
"Not even close." Thoran exhaled slowly, deliberately relaxing his shoulders. "Thanks for the intervention. Even if you don't actually need landscaping work."
"Who says I don't? My backyard is a disaster."
He looked at her for a long moment. "You really want me to work on your yard?"
"If you have time. I can pay—"
"Don't insult me." But his voice was warm. "Come on, let's take a look."
They spent an hour walking her backyard while Thoran sketched ideas on a notepad. He pointed out where she could add raised beds for vegetables, where a small patio would catch the afternoon sun, how strategic plantings could create privacy from the neighbors behind her.
"You have a good eye for this," Sarah said, watching him draw.
"Plants don't judge." The words came out before he seemed to mean them to, and he looked embarrassed. "I mean—"
"I get it." Sarah sat on her back steps. "People can be awful. Quick to assume the worst."
"Were you? When you first moved in?" The question was careful, but genuine.
Sarah thought about lying, then decided he deserved honesty. "A little. Yeah. I'd heard things, believed things. I'm sorry."
"I'm used to it." Thoran sat beside her, the steps creaking under his weight. "When I was growing up, other orc kids called me weak because I liked baking. Humans crossed the street when they saw me coming. Couldn't win either way."
"That's not fair."
"No. But it's reality." He glanced at her. "Your friend Jessica warned you about me, didn't she? After you moved in."
Sarah felt her cheeks heat. "She mentioned... that you kept irregular hours."
"Uh huh." Thoran's smile was wry. "It's okay. At least you gave me a chance."
"You fixed my lawnmower and brought me bread. You made it pretty easy."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the evening shadows lengthen across the yard. Sarah thought about all the assumptions she'd made, all the warnings she'd half-believed. How close she'd come to missing this friendship.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For being patient with me. With all of us."
Thoran bumped her shoulder gently with his—a movement so careful she barely felt it. "Thank you for actually seeing me."
Over the next few weeks, Thoran became a more regular presence in their lives, though always at a respectful distance.
One Saturday morning, Sarah was outside helping Thoran plant new additions to his garden when Lily wandered out, wearing her garden gloves—the small pink ones Sarah had bought her for their own backyard.
"Can I help too?" Lily asked, hovering at the edge of Thoran's lawn.
Sarah started to say no, to keep the boundary she'd been maintaining, but Thoran looked up with such genuine pleasure that she hesitated.
"I could use an expert on butterfly plants," Thoran said to Lily. "Your mom says you're really good at butterflies."
"I'm the best in my class at drawing them," Lily said, moving closer with more confidence. "But I don't know about the real kind."
"Well, butterflies need special plants. Milkweed for monarchs, parsley for swallowtails." He gestured to a small plant in a pot. "Want to help me plant this one? It's called catmint, and it attracts all kinds."
Lily looked at Sarah, who found herself nodding. "Okay, but you have to listen to Mr. Thoran's instructions."
"Just Thoran," he said gently, then showed Lily how to dig the proper hole, how to loosen the roots, how to pat the soil down just right.
After that, Lily would wave to Thoran from the porch when she saw him, always with Sarah present. He'd wave back, never approaching unless Sarah was there. He seemed to understand without being told that Sarah needed to control the pace.
One evening, Sarah was carrying groceries from the car when a bag split, sending oranges rolling across the driveway. Thoran appeared almost instantly, helping her gather them while Lily watched from the doorway.
"Thank you," Sarah said, flustered. "I thought I could carry them all in one trip."
"I do that with mulch bags," Thoran admitted. "Always ends badly."
Lily giggled from the doorway. "Mama tries to carry too much."
"It's a very common condition," Thoran said solemnly to Lily. "Very serious. Called 'I-don't-want-to-make-two-trips-itis.'"
Lily's giggle turned into a full laugh, and Sarah felt something in her chest relax.
A few days later, Sarah was frosting cupcakes for Lily's class when she realized she was short on sprinkles. Without thinking twice, she walked over to Thoran's house and knocked.
"Do you have sprinkles?" she asked when he answered. "I'm making cupcakes for Lily's class and—"
"Three different colors," he said, disappearing into his kitchen. He returned with containers of rainbow sprinkles, stars, and hearts. "Take what you need."
"You are a lifesaver." Sarah paused. "Do you want to help? I'm drowning in cupcakes over there."
Thoran glanced past her to where Lily was visible through Sarah's front window, carefully arranging the cupcakes. "If you're sure."
They spent the next hour frosting cupcakes while Lily supervised, declaring which ones were "perfect" and which needed "more sprinkles, please." Thoran's large hands wielded the piping bag with surprising precision, creating perfect swirls.
"You're better at this than me," Sarah said, slightly indignant.
"Practice," Thoran said. "I've frosted a lot of cakes."
"Can you make a butterfly?" Lily asked, and Thoran proceeded to pipe an intricate butterfly on one cupcake, much to her delight.
Sarah watched him with her daughter—patient, gentle, completely focused on making Lily happy—and felt her last reservations begin to crumble.
After that evening, Lily started asking about "Uncle Thoran" regularly. When could they visit him? Did he like the drawing she'd made? Could he show her how to do the butterfly frosting?
So Sarah started saying yes to small things. They'd wave to him together. Stop to chat when they saw him outside. Lily would show him her drawings while Sarah stood beside her.
Two weeks after the cupcake incident, Sarah found herself in a bind. She'd forgotten milk—actually forgotten it, despite having it on her list—and Lily was exhausted from a long day at school, already in her pajamas and halfway through a movie.
Sarah stood in her kitchen, debating. She could bundle Lily back into clothes and drag her to the store, which would result in tears and tantrums. Or...
She looked out the window. Thoran was in his front yard, deadheading roses in the fading evening light.
Her heart hammered as she walked outside. This was different from chatting on the porch or frosting cupcakes together. This was asking him to be alone with her daughter. Trusting him with the most precious thing in her life.
"Almost. She's watching a movie." Sarah twisted her hands together. "I have a huge favor to ask, and you can absolutely say no."
"Okay..."
"I forgot milk at the store. Lily's already in her pajamas and exhausted, and I really don't want to drag her out again." The words came out in a rush. "Would you mind sitting with her for fifteen minutes? She's watching Moana, she'll probably fall asleep on the couch. I just—I don't want to leave her alone, and you're the only person I—" She stopped, realizing what she was about to say.
The only person I trust.
Thoran's expression softened with understanding. He knew what she was asking. What it meant.
"I'd be honored," he said quietly. "Take your time. We'll be fine."
Sarah showed him inside, pointed out where the emergency numbers were even though he'd never need them, reminded him that Lily knew his name if anything happened. Thoran listened patiently to her nervous rambling, then gently steered her toward the door.
"Sarah. We'll be fine. I promise."
The grocery store was only five minutes away, but Sarah's hands were shaking on the steering wheel. She'd just left her daughter with an orc. What would Jason say? What would Jessica say?
But more importantly—what did Sarah think?
She thought about Thoran's gentleness with Lily. His patience. The way he crouched down to her level and listened like her questions mattered. She thought about the books he'd helped her with, the roses they'd tended together, the quiet evenings in his kitchen.
She thought about how safe she felt with him. How seen.
Sarah grabbed the milk and headed back, her heart rate slowly returning to normal.
When she pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes later, she could see through the front window. Thoran and Lily were in his front yard, examining his rosebush in the last light of day. Her daughter's small hand was tucked trustingly into his massive one as he showed her the new growth emerging from the pruned stems, pointing out the healthy leaves.
Sarah sat in the car for a moment, watching them. Lily was chattering, probably asking a million questions, and Thoran was answering each one with the same careful attention he gave to everything. There was nothing but gentleness in the picture. Nothing but care.
She'd been so afraid. And she'd been so wrong.
Sarah got out of the car, and Lily spotted her immediately.
"Mama!" Lily called, waving. "Thoran says the roses are going to be okay! The medicine is working!"
"The fungicide," Thoran corrected gently. "And we won't know for sure for a few more weeks. But it's looking better."
Sarah walked over, and Thoran pointed out the healthy green shoots, the absence of black spots on the new leaves. He explained the treatment plan like he was discussing battle strategy, and Lily listened with rapt attention.
"Can we grow roses, Mama?" Lily asked. "Thoran says he'll give us a cutting when these are healthy."
"We can definitely try." Sarah met Thoran's eyes over her daughter's head. "I'm sure Thoran will help us not kill them."
"I have faith in you." His tone was teasing, and Sarah found herself grinning.
After Lily went to bed that night, Sarah stood at her kitchen window for a long time, watching the light in Thoran's house. She thought about the trust she'd placed in him, how natural it had felt despite all her fears. How right it had been.
A few days later, Sarah was making beef stew—her grandmother's recipe, the one that took all afternoon and filled the house with warmth. She'd made too much, as usual, and found herself standing at the stove, looking at the pot, thinking.
Before she could second-guess herself, she walked next door and knocked.
"I made beef stew," Sarah said. "Way too much for just Lily and me. Want to come over for dinner?"
Thoran's expression softened. "I'd like that. Let me clean up first."
He arrived twenty minutes later, his hair damp from a shower, carrying a container of what turned out to be chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven. Lily chattered through dinner about school and her friends and a stray cat she'd seen. Thoran listened attentively, asking questions, making her laugh with stories about unruly garden gnomes and his most difficult landscaping clients.
After dinner, while Lily drew pictures at the coffee table, Sarah and Thoran cleaned up together in the kitchen. They moved around each other easily now, comfortable in the small space.
"This was nice," Thoran said, drying the last dish. "Thank you for including me."
"Thank you for the cookies. And for being so good with Lily. And for..." Sarah gestured vaguely. "Everything, I guess."
"Sarah." Thoran set down the dish towel. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"What changed? Between when you first moved in and now?"
Sarah thought about it carefully. "I stopped listening to what I'd been told and started paying attention to what was actually in front of me. And what was in front of me was someone kind and talented and generous." She met his eyes. "Someone who became my friend."
"Your friend." Thoran said the words like he was tasting them. "I like that."
"Good." Sarah smiled. "Because you're stuck with us now."
The following Friday, Jason's sleek sedan pulled into Sarah's driveway at exactly 6 PM. He was nothing if not punctual about his custody weekends.
Sarah had Lily's overnight bag ready by the door, but her daughter was dragging her feet, still coloring a picture at the kitchen table.
"Lily, honey, Daddy's here," Sarah called.
"Just one more minute! I want to finish Uncle Thoran's garden!"
Sarah's stomach dropped. She'd been careful not to mention Thoran during her brief text exchanges with Jason, some instinct telling her it would only cause problems.
The doorbell rang. Through the window, Sarah could see Jason on the porch, but his attention was fixed on Thoran's house next door. Thoran's truck was parked in the driveway, and Thoran himself was visible in his front yard, trimming hedges.
Sarah opened the door, trying for a bright smile. "Hey. She's almost ready, just finishing up a drawing."
Jason stepped inside, still looking past her. "Is that an orc living next door?"
"That's Thoran. He's our neighbor. Very nice guy."
"Nice guy." Jason's tone was flat. He finally looked at her, his expression tight. "You're letting Lily play around an orc?"
"I'm not 'letting' her do anything. We're neighbors. We're friendly." Sarah kept her voice level, aware that Lily could hear from the kitchen.
"Sarah, those people are dangerous. Everyone knows—"
"Everyone knows what? Stereotypes?" Sarah crossed her arms. "Thoran helped us move in. He's been nothing but kind and respectful."
"Daddy!" Lily came running, throwing herself at Jason's legs. She held up her drawing. "Look! I made a picture of Uncle Thoran's garden! He has forty-two roses. Well, not forty-two, but a lot. And he showed me how to—"
"Uncle Thoran?" Jason's voice was sharp. He looked at Sarah over Lily's head. "She's calling him uncle?"
"It's just a term of affection," Sarah said quietly. "Jason, don't make this into something it's not."
Jason crouched down, taking the drawing from Lily. "That's very nice, sweetheart. Why don't you go grab your bag? We're going to have a great weekend."
Once Lily had scampered off, Jason stood, his jaw tight. "We need to talk about this. I'm not comfortable with some orc being around my daughter."
"He's not 'some orc.' He's Thoran. He's a landscaper and he bakes and he's been a good friend to us." Sarah felt her own anger rising. "You don't get to do this, Jason. You don't get to leave and then try to control who we're friends with."
"I have a right to be concerned about Lily's safety—"
"Her safety isn't threatened. The only threat here is you teaching her your prejudices."
They stared at each other for a long moment. Through the window, Sarah could see Thoran had stopped trimming and was watching the house. He was too far away to hear, but he seemed to sense something was wrong.
"I'm ready!" Lily announced, dragging her unicorn backpack.
Jason's expression smoothed instantly. "Great! Let's go, princess." He picked up her bag, then looked at Sarah one more time. "We're not done discussing this."
"There's nothing to discuss," Sarah said firmly. "Have a good weekend, Lily. I love you."
After they drove away, Sarah stood in the doorway, her hands shaking with residual anger. She saw Thoran set down his hedge trimmers and walk over, concern evident on his face.
"Everything okay?" he asked, stopping at the property line.
Sarah wanted to lie, to brush it off. But she was tired of pretending. "My ex saw you. Made some comments. He's..." She trailed off, not wanting to say the words.
"Prejudiced," Thoran finished quietly. "It's okay. You can say it."
"It's not okay. He had no right—" Sarah felt tears prick her eyes, anger and frustration overwhelming her. "I'm sorry. You didn't ask to be dragged into my messy life."
"Hey." Thoran took a step closer, his voice gentle. "Your life isn't messy. It's complicated. There's a difference." He paused. "And for what it's worth, I don't mind being part of it. Any part of it."
Sarah looked up at him, at the genuine warmth in his eyes, and felt something in her chest loosen. "Thank you," she whispered.
"Do you want some company? I just made apple turnovers."
Despite everything, Sarah found herself smiling. "You always have something baked, don't you?"
"Stress baking. It's a thing." He smiled back. "Come on. Let's eat our feelings."
They sat in Thoran's kitchen, eating warm turnovers and not talking about Jason. But the confrontation hung between them—a reminder that the world outside their friendship wasn't always as accepting as they'd grown to be with each other.
The roses bloomed again in late summer.
Sarah was leaving for work when she saw them—deep red petals unfurling in the morning sun, healthy and vibrant. Thoran stood beside the fence, staring at them with an expression of such joy that Sarah felt tears prick her eyes.
She walked over without thinking. "They made it."
"They made it." Thoran's voice was rough. "I thought I'd lost them. My mother's roses."
On impulse, Sarah hugged him. He stiffened in surprise, then carefully wrapped his arms around her, and Sarah realized she felt safer in that moment than she had in years. Safe and valued and seen.
"Thank you," he murmured into her hair. "For the books. For caring about something that mattered to me."
"That's what friends do," Sarah said, though the word suddenly felt insufficient for what they'd become.
They pulled apart slowly, and Thoran reached out to gently cup one of the blooms. "Will you help me take a cutting? For your garden?"
"I'd be honored."
That weekend, Thoran showed Sarah and Lily how to prepare the cutting, how to root it, how to plant it in the perfect spot in their backyard. Lily took her job as "rose guardian" very seriously, checking on it every day, reporting to Thoran on its progress.
The neighborhood slowly adjusted to their friendship. Jessica stopped making pointed comments. Mr. Henderson hired Thoran to redesign his front yard and actually apologized for the parking incident. Other neighbors began waving, started conversations, asked Thoran for landscaping advice.
But the best moments were the quiet ones. Saturday mornings when Thoran would knock on their door with fresh pastries and Sarah would make coffee, and they'd sit on her porch while Lily played. Evenings when Sarah would bring over dinner and they'd eat in Thoran's garden, surrounded by flowers and the sound of wind chimes. The way Lily had started calling him "Uncle Thoran" and how his face lit up every time.
The way Sarah had started to imagine a future that included him in it.
On a cool evening in October, Sarah found Thoran in his backyard, building something with wood and chicken wire.
"What's that going to be?" she asked.
"Cold frame. For growing herbs through winter." He looked up, pushing hair from his face. "Want to help?"
They worked together as the sun set, Thoran explaining the construction while Sarah held pieces in place. Their hands brushed as they passed tools, and Sarah noticed Thoran's calluses, the careful way he handled even the smallest components.
"Can I tell you something?" Thoran said suddenly.
"Always."
"I was going to sell this house. Before you moved in." He kept his eyes on his work. "I'd been saving up for a place further out. Somewhere I wouldn't have to deal with the stares and comments. Somewhere I could just... exist."
Sarah's chest tightened. "And now?"
"Now I have roses to tend. A cold frame to build. A neighbor who appreciates my baking." He finally looked at her, his dark eyes intense. "Now I have reasons to stay."
"Thoran—"
"I know it's complicated. I know there's Lily to think about, and what people might say. I know I'm not..." He gestured at himself. "I'm not what most people picture when they think about their lives."
Sarah reached out and took his hand, so large it engulfed hers. "You're exactly what I need in my life. What we need. Someone genuine and kind and strong. Someone who shows up." Her voice cracked slightly. "Someone who sees us and stays."
"I'll always stay," Thoran said softly. "If you'll have me."
Sarah thought about the woman she'd been when she first moved to Maple Street—scared, defensive, ready to believe the worst. She thought about the life she'd imagined back then, safe and small and carefully controlled.
This was better. This was real.
"We're not going anywhere either," she said.
Thoran smiled—a real smile, wide and unguarded—and Sarah felt her heart expand in her chest. He squeezed her hand gently, and they stood there in his garden as stars began to appear overhead, surrounded by the roses he'd saved and the life they'd built, one small kindness at a time.
Inside the house, the smell of bread baking drifted through the open window. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. A car passed, its headlights sweeping across them briefly before moving on.
It was all perfectly ordinary and absolutely magical.
"Come on," Sarah said, tugging his hand. "Let's go check on that bread. And I want you to teach me how to make those cinnamon rolls."
"The secret's in the dough," Thoran said, letting her lead him toward the house. "You have to be patient with it. Give it time to rise."
Sarah laughed. "I think I'm learning that about a lot of things."
They walked inside together, and Thoran showed her the intricacies of his cinnamon roll dough—how to knead it just enough, how to tell when it had risen properly, the precise way to roll it out so the spirals would be even.
Sarah found herself watching his hands more than the dough. The careful way he worked, the gentleness in every movement. She thought about those same hands fixing her lawnmower, building the cold frame, holding Lily's hand so carefully while showing her the roses.
"You're not paying attention," Thoran said, amusement in his voice.
"I am." Sarah looked up to find him watching her. "Just... not to the dough."
The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Thoran's hands stilled on the counter between them.
"Sarah," he said softly. "I need you to know—I'm not expecting anything. This, what we have, it's already more than I ever hoped for. Your friendship, Lily's trust, being part of your lives—"
"Thoran." Sarah moved around the counter until she was standing directly in front of him. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "What if I want more than friendship?"
His breath caught. "Do you mean—"
"I mean I think about you constantly. I mean I look for your truck when I come home. I mean when Lily talks about her future, you're in it, and when I think about mine, you are too." She reached up, placing her hand against his chest, feeling his heart beating fast beneath her palm. "I mean I'm falling for you, and I don't want to stop."
"I've already fallen," Thoran admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He raised one hand, hovering near her face, not quite touching. "Can I—"
"Yes," Sarah breathed.
He cupped her cheek with infinite care, his palm warm and rough with calluses. Sarah leaned into the touch, then rose up on her toes as he bent down. The first brush of his lips against hers was feather-light, tentative, as if he was afraid she might break.
Sarah wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him properly.
Thoran made a soft sound of surprise and happiness, then pulled her closer, one arm around her waist, the other hand sliding into her hair. He kissed her like she was precious, like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life. Sarah melted against him, feeling safe and cherished and utterly herself.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Thoran rested his forehead against hers.
"This is..." He trailed off, searching for words. "I've never felt like this before."
Sarah laughed, the sound shaky with emotion and happiness. "Me neither. Not like this. Not this... easy."
"Easy?" Thoran smiled against her hair. "You thought I was terrifying when you moved in."
"Okay, fair. But once I got past my own stupidity—" She pulled back to look at him. "This has been the easiest thing in the world. Being with you. Letting you in."
"The butterfly cupcake probably helped," he teased, and she swatted his chest lightly.
"The butterfly cupcake definitely helped." She kissed him again, shorter this time but no less sweet. "So did the bread. And the roses. And the way you look at me like I'm not broken."
"You're not broken." Thoran pulled back enough to meet her eyes, his expression serious now. "You're healing. There's a difference. And I—" He paused, cupping her face gently. "I care about you. So much. You and Lily both. I want to be here for all of it, if you'll let me."
"Stay," Sarah said firmly. "Stay for all of it. The good days and the hard ones. Stay for Lily's school plays and terrible movies and lazy Sunday mornings. Just... stay."
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
They stood there in his kitchen, wrapped in each other's arms, while the timer beeped softly in the background. The bread was ready. The night was cool and clear outside. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. A car passed.
It was all perfectly ordinary and absolutely magical.
"The bread," Sarah finally murmured against his chest.
"Let it cool," Thoran said, tightening his hold on her. "I want to stay right here for another minute."
So they did, swaying slightly in the quiet kitchen, the scent of fresh bread surrounding them. Through the window, the roses swayed gently in the evening breeze—red petals glowing in the porch light, reaching toward the sky, blooming despite everything.
Just like the people who tended them.
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Hi I just really, really wanted to write about an eldritch horror radio host and a listener with a huge vocal kink. I hope you enjoy :p I love Palos and will potentially make more content with him.
Radio Host!Eldritch Deity x Reader
Frequencies of Pleasure
Yeah, you had a guilty pleasure. Didn’t everyone?
Yours just so happened to be a certain late night radio host’s voice. Palos was what he called himself through inhumanly smooth purrs and a sinfully sweet laugh. Palos, your tight-knit town’s local eldritch deity that chained himself willingly to the radio waves and dedicated his nights to soothing insomniacs everywhere.
Every night at nine-on-the-dot, station number 86.1 would fizzle into a smooth hum. And every night, you’d tune in just a little bit earlier to make sure you caught his intro.
“Good evening, dear listener.” Always so soft into the microphone, like an intimate greeting meant only for you. Sometimes he’d change it up, and say, ‘lovely listener’ or ‘beloved attendee’.
No matter the wording, the way he said it curled and licked up your spine deliciously. Sometimes you felt a bit odd using his voice to fill some aching part of you. Blending reality and fantasy some nights when he would address the listener directly and you were a couple of bottles of wine deep. When you’d feel your fingers creep down to the desperate heat between your thighs— wondering if you’d feel the press of claws or if he had something akin to tentacles.
You’d never actually seen him. He chose to stay mostly residing in the darkened radio station at the center of town. The curiosity only fueled your borderline obsession with him.
Maybe that curiosity is what drove you to be bolder one night. Balancing a glass of red wine precariously between two fingers as you dialed up his radio station, a smirk playing over your lips.
Once a week, Palos had a segment where he accepted listener submitted slips. Whether it was a music request, a question directly for him, or a confession sent in anonymously, Palos read it out. Last week when he announced that the submission box was reopened, you jumped up. It took you three days to finally write something that didn’t make your insides want to shrivel up and die of embarrassment.
And even as you shoved the slip into the box outside of the station, you felt an immediate heat rush to your face at the thought of him reading it out.
But your mind was made.
Crackle… Shhhhhh—
“Ah… Good evening, cherished listener. I, Palos, have returned to you for another night of peace and company. Always such a pleasure to be with you.”
You settled back into the plush cushions of your couch, legs tucked beneath you as you nursed a glass of rosé. Your heart lurched the moment his voice poured through the dinky radio that sat atop your coffee table. Teasing your lower lip between your teeth, you leaned forward and turned the volume dial higher.
“If you have not done so already, please dim your lights, get yourself comfortable. I have some submissions to read to you tonight.”
Through the static, you could hear the soft shuffling of papers, along with a faint humming that you already familiarized with him. It sounded like a dozen frequencies stacked into one musical note. Something that often reminded you of his otherworldly existence, as if he himself was intertwined with the radio waves.
As he read through the submissions, you listened intently. Always falling into a sort of pattern where you could pretend he was sitting across from you, that gentle voice pointed directly at you.
Some were song requests that would break through the conversation Palos would have to his invisible audience. Never anything too heavy, no. He already stressed how important it was to keep the music peaceful. Some slower indie music, soft jazz, or even some deep soul music that made the longing twist into something worse.
Others were confessions. Some were used as a trauma dumping ground, listing off their hardest struggles. And Palos would click his tongue softly before replying with insightful and thoughtful advice. Every single time. Nothing anyone could say seemed to perturb him.
It wasn’t until he paused nearly an hour later, the sudden rough drag of him clearing his throat startling you. You didn’t realize that you’d nearly fallen asleep.
“Oh? Well, this is quite different than what I am used to.”
Your blood froze at the rich amusement that lingered in his words, a low purr lifting at the end of his sentence. “Oh no..” You slid the radio closer as you muttered to yourself, silently hoping someone else’s submission was far more interesting than yours.
“‘You’ve become something of a guilty pleasure of mine. I tune in to your station every night, and your voice has managed to find its way into my dreams. I don’t think I’ve heard someone sound so soothing and attractive at the same time.’”
And he laughed.
Oh god, it was such a velvety sound. And it shot straight between your thighs. It wasn’t his usual laugh— semi-amused and muffled by the press of his hand. This one was the kind that caught you off guard, delighted and surprised by such an admission. It curled out of the radio and seemed to caress your skin with its tenderness.
It took him a moment to continue, his breathing puffing softly into the microphone. The sound of it made you want to move closer to receiver, to feel any form of that breath fan across your cheek.
“I hope you are listening tonight then, dear.”
A softer purr, the crackling of the radio as his tone dipped to a frequency lower than what would pass for human. It elicited a shiver out of you, breath catching in your throat as you finally did move closer.
“I did not realize that my voice could become someone’s.. What was it? Guilty pleasure? I wonder what it is that causes you guilt, sweet listener. Pleasure is never meant to be shied away from. It is the basis of existence, after all.”
This night felt different. As he spoke to you, directly to you this time, you felt a warmth seeping through your veins. Your stomach twisted and knotted into something ferocious as your fingers slid over your thighs.
You heard him shift closer to the mic, his breathing somehow falling to match with yours.
“If it should cause you less guilt, my dear.. I would be most.. delighted if you used me and my voice as a source of your pleasure. After all, I am here to keep you company.”
His words made you squirm, thighs pressed together at the breathiness with which ‘pleased’ fell from his lips. You would even dare to believe there was a hint of a smile in his words. A part of you wondered just how connected to the radio Palos was. If he could pick out and figure out who you were just from the fact that you tuned in tonight.
After all, he chose to chain himself to the station. He was a deity, a being of chaos and shadows and everything you longed for and feared at the same time.
“I do hope you’ll continue to listen nightly, love. Perhaps I’ll see you in your dreams soon.”
Love the freaky mermen stuff you do, but what about something a bit fluffier? Less explicitly horny and moreso emotional and cute. Maybe a little implicitly horny.
You bet! Merman fluff coming right up!
You're on a boat enjoying an afternoon on the sea with your family when your young nephew begins to cry.
"My ball!" He whines, pointing at the brightly colored toy bobbing away merrily.
"I told you not to throw it, kid," your sister says from where she's lying peacefully on a recliner.
You soothe your nephew and then you slip into the water, which feels marvelous on your slightly sunburnt skin. You paddle towards the ball. After half a minute, you realize it's floating away faster than you can catch up. The sea is calm today and the waves are peaceful. So why is it all the way over there? You swim a little faster, but when you finally get close enough to grab it, your fingers slip.
The ball bobs to the surface but refuses to budge when you try to pick it up as if it's stuck on something. But you're in the middle of the ocean, so what could that be? You reach into the water and find something firm and slimy. You can see into the water a little, and there's definitely nothing there.
You tug at the invisible thing again, mystified. The water ripples as it surfaces, becoming visible all at once. It's a mottled brown and white octopus merman. His big eyes regard you curiously as the tentacle you just touched curls around your arm, suctioning to it.
"Hi. Any chance I can get that ball back?" You ask, because your nephew will probably start screaming if you don't return with it.
The mer's gaze switches from the ball back to you. The suckers on his tentacles clamp on the plastic as he pushes it towards you and you have to really yank the ball to get it free, offering him a sheepish smile.
"Did you think it was food?" You ask.
He cocks his head. Maybe he hasn't seen a human before. It's a good thing you're a competent swimmer because he takes his time looking you over, his tentacles curling around your limbs, the tips of them tapping your skin lightly like he's surprised by the texture.
"Oi, what are you doing all the way over there?"
The distant shout of your brother-in-law makes you turn to look. Apparently no one noticed you weren't on the boat and now they've sailed pretty far away. Too far for you to care to swim.
"Pick me up!" You shout, cupping your hands around your mouth.
"What?!" He answers. "I can't hear you!"
Amazing. You contemplate staying put until they realize they need to turn around and get you, but the octopus mer has already noticed your dilemma. He wraps two tentacles around your waist and then does the strangest thing. He flares out hidden frills between each tentacle until his lower half is oval-shaped, floating at the surface of the water like he's mimicking the ball. He swims towards the boat, delivering you back to your astonished family.
"You can't go a second without getting into some kind of trouble," your sister says with a laugh. "You could've let the ball go."
"What, and anger Cuthulu over here for littering and have him capsize the boat?" You joke, pulling yourself up the ladder and handing the ball to your nephew, who squeals with joy.
"Thank you, Mr. Fish Spaghetti!" He says, peering over the edge of the boat.
The octopus mer turns a shy pink. You feel bad about letting him go without some kind of thank you, so you give him a cracker with cheese from the charcuterie board.
He gives it a sniff before poking it into his mouth. His eyes widen even more than they already are, his tentacles swishing happily in the water.
"You know feeding merfolk is a bad idea, right?" Your sister says. "They're not tame. You're ruining his ability to hunt for himself or something like that."
"Oh come on, he's just a fella," your brother-in-law says with a chuckle.
A soft plop has all of you turning to see the octopus mer has invited himself onto the boat. He extends a cautious tentacle and pats your arm before waving a tentacle at the charcuterie board. Yes, he's just a fella. Can he please have some more crackers with cheese?
