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SEEDS TO FEELINGS | gardener!orc x noble!reader

following the end of the war between humanity and orcs, your father takes on an orc refugee who claims he was once a cook in the army, but is now a mere, simple gardener.

warnings; "you are not immune to propaganda", extreme classism, mentions of death, mentions of the king having concubines, probably some uncomfy details, the end of this is very much mc's privileged life showing through, mc also moves fast lmao

wc; 2,000

divider; @/strangergraphics

a/n: so, this has potential to be a part two because I'd like to write a smut part, but that's up to y'all let me know. also, I sort of imagine him as a "pretty" orc. cop out? maybe. but, oh well.

if you enjoyed it, please share + interact with this post!! i'd love to hear your thoughts!!

When King Zytmar rode into the Capital City with the head of orc warlord Varrok Dreadhammer mounted on a spear, the people knew that the war was finally over.

The celebrations lasted weeks into the harvest season, with good barley wine and trestle tables draped in purple and glistening golden thread, feeding all weary travelers and the city's downtrodden poor until the seams of their clothes strained around their bellies. It was all a fleeting fantasy, however, a delusional sense of oneness that would vanish once the king's sense of goodwill diminished and he hardened towards the pleas and bargaining of those lesser.

Perhaps it was through that eventual return to normalcy and social order that you were so surprised to see an orc on your doorstep, amidst a sweltering summer day. He did not wear heavy armor made of steel and fortified leather, nor did he carry an enormous mace or hammer or great-sword stained pale pink with blood, as all of the stories claimed you should expect if you were to ever see an orc in person. The clothing he wore was simple and threadbare, breathable in the heat, with a modest pack across his shoulder.

He swiped across his face with a damp rag and introduced himself as Orgrim Ironhorn. Once a modest cook for the orc armies during the war, he now stood before you and your father, a humble refugee who knew his way around different temperaments of soil and a garden rake.

This act of humility delighted your father, and he asked for no further evidence of the orc's skills before inviting him indoors, out of the midday heat. Your father was the sort who had no natural enemies and looked upon everyone with the same probing curiosity. All your life, you'd known ragtag misfits and rugged, handsome criminals who labored in the woods, black-lunged chimney boys with poor prognosis who skipped stones after watering the horses and hunting dogs, and the hunchbacked old women who enjoyed brushing your hair and telling you how fine you would be for a husband someday.

But this was different entirely; inviting an orc into your home. During the long years of the war, the king had ordered noble families to educate their children on the unsavory character of all orcs, to know them as brutish and cruel, and to steal women to spawn hideous, malformed half-breeds that they'd force into their ranks. That was the sort of content that pleased Mother to see you read as you aged, as her relationship with your father deteriorated, and her disdain towards the world beyond the opulent parties with shimmering silk gowns and lacquered furniture.

She wouldn't have been able to tolerate having an orc step into her house if she were still here to see it. You weren't committed to your feelings; neither hatred nor affinity came to you as you looked at him and he found your eyes for the first time. He had one good eye that was pale green, inquisitive, and tired, the other clenched shut in a perpetual wince with an old scar that started from his brow-bone and ended at his cheek.

"You're the next of kin?" asked Orgrim coarsely, causing the hairs on your neck to prickle and your mood to instantly sour from how unceremoniously he had addressed you. There was still some of your mother left in you, it seemed.

"Yes, I am." And, you offered your name to him, trying not to let your awe of his height and broad shoulders betray you by showing on your face. "If you're to be our gardener, I must ask: What could you possibly grow this time of year that could thrive in this heat? The ground is so dry that it's cracked, and the grass is scorched from the sun. Everything will die. Why choose to come here now? Why not during the rainier seasons?"

Your father scolded you, claiming you were wasting everyone's time with your interrogation, but you thought it was fair since he wouldn't do it himself.

Orgrim kept his good eye on you, unblinking, until he had the pack off his shoulder and began to rummage around inside. He was at it for a moment before pulling out a thick glass vial with five red seeds inside it. You startled when he thrust the vial at your stomach and held it there until you took it from him.

"Give these back to me on the hottest day of the year," said Orgrim. "Things can still grow in cracked, scorched earth if you know how to do it. I do. Find me when it's unbearable."

Orgrim gave no show of satisfaction as he left you there to roll the vial from the tips of your fingers to your palm again and again, speechless and alone in the front hall. Even as the days passed into weeks, which melted into months, you hung on his words, contemplating whether any particular day was truly terrible enough to approach him with the seeds.

The vial was the first item you placed on your body after waking from sleep and dressing. In case the day came, you cleverly tucked the glass tube down the front of your blouse to avoid being investigated by the hunchback women, and to always be prepared.

"It's rather hot today, wouldn't you say?" you asked Orgrim, at least once a day. "I think the ground is more cracked and scorched than usual."

Orgrim, as you had come to learn, did not possess any humor or sharp wit with which to challenge or entertain you, but he was always honest and replied to your quips with sincerity, as these dallying conversations mattered.

"It was hotter yesterday by two," he said, impaling his spade into the dry earth to break up the dirt. You stood behind him with a parasol, observing over his shoulder as he worked to crush chunks of dehydrated soil and roots into a fine grit before placing striped seeds into holes he poked. "Don't worry. There will be hotter days to come."

You made an agitated noise in your throat while spinning the rod of the parasol between your fingers. "I certainly hope not. For both our sakes."

That day came weeks later, carrying the breath of death to the Capital City and killing numerous: the prisoners sitting in windowless cells, the chimney boys with clogged lungs, the beggared men and women turned away from the shelter in the houses of their gods, and the old men who died sitting in the same worn spots that they did every day. The king knew of the tragedies befalling his city, yet chose to hide in the shade and bathing pools of his castle with his favorite concubines and nobility while life around him wilted and rotted in the streets.

"My, there's another!" called your father to the servants, gesturing for them to gather water from the well. "Quickly, douse him!" Now, he pointed at a man stumbling into the black gates outside of your family's estate. You watched the servants carry over a metal cup with lukewarm water and a damp cloth to wring upon the parched man's head.

"That makes twenty today," said Orgrim in his rigid way, leaning back into the shade your parasol provided, hands in the hot dirt even now. "You do not have enough water to last forever. Your father must know that when resources are scarce, they must be protected by any means necessary."

There were times when Orgrim spoke that you suspected his role during the war went far beyond that of a meager cook. He held his shoulders too far back, chin too straight, and he maintained eye contact as a way to gauge respect. You'd noticed it the first time your eyes met his, and he refused to look away until the conversation was over.

"My father will give and give until there's nothing left for himself or anyone else." You came around to Orgrim's side and sat on your knees on the desiccated earth. The feeling of being this low to the ground was uncomfortable, and you wanted to stand again, but you remembered the agreement. "Is today the hottest day of the year?"

"Aye," said Orgrim, peering at you through his long, black braids. "I would say so. Do you have the seeds?"

You let out an affirming hum and plucked the vial out from inside your blouse. The glass was slick and stuck against your skin, making it difficult to get a grip on it at first. When you realized that Orgrim had witnessed the struggle and the fact that you had pulled it out of your clothing in such an intimate place, you let out a chagrined laugh and wiped the container dry on your trousers.

"My apologies," you said, "that was unsightly of me. It was my way of always having the seeds with me for whenever the day finally came. I didn't want to lose sight of them."

Orgrim's pale eye lingered on you for too long. You were familiar with that look from men. It was when they tried to gain the vision to see through your clothes, imagining how you looked underneath. It reminded you of a fishmonger inspecting his product for parasites under the scales, or a hunter wondering whether he had killed something worthy of being stuffed and displayed next to the hearth.

Yet, when he finally looked away to uncap the vial, you didn't think that the feelings you had were related to disgust or discomfort, but rather disappointment. It was inadequacy that made you stare down at your own body and wonder, briefly, whether it was good enough for him; if he had actually looked at you like that at all.

"After I plant them, they'll grow fast," said Orgrim. He had already buried three of them in dirt he had crushed with his bare hands. "They're a rare flower from my homeland. They thrive in climates like these with little water. The flower blooms bright red and can be used for special dyes. During the war, we used them as paint. The stem can be a strong antiseptic if you slice it open and use the sap to fill the wound."

"What an incredible flower." You meant it, but you were distracted by the way his rough hands moved through the gritty soil. By how he let the granules slip between his fingers and cake dust under his nails as he covered two more seeds. With the final seed dropped into the hole, you reached out to stop him. "Wait. Can I do the last one? I want to feel like I'm a part of this as well."

You expected that he would have reeled from your touch, believing that he would find it repulsive that a human touched him, yet he did not move. He waited patiently for you to remove your hand first before uncovering the seed for you to bury and water thoroughly from a cup.

"It is done," said Orgrim, sounding the most accomplished you'd ever heard him. "Now, we wait four days for them to sprout. When that happens, we only need to water it once every five days. Will you be able to remember to help me?"

"I think so." Uncertainty danced in your voice as your lips tightened into a smile when he focused his eye down on you. You liked to think that he was trying to see you again, but perhaps he was just simply looking.

In your mind, you blamed the heat as you sat up a little higher on your knees and kissed him between his short tusks, your fingers leaving featherlight strokes along the sides of his face. If the suddenness of your affection had startled him, he made no show of it as his hand wove into your hair and he kissed you back with fervor.

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