1
He rolled his shoulders back, the massive slabs of muscle shifting under his old red flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a movement that felt less like stretching and more like containing a coiled spring. His broad, powerful shoulders, etched with scars from battles long past, were a testament to a life of conflict and survival.
*Fuck.*
This was his day off.
He was supposed to be far away from here, from this city. Aethelgard, with its cold, metal facades and endless crowds. There was nothing for him here, not truly. His soul yearned for the quiet of the country, the deep, breathing silence of the woods, and the honest labor of restoring the old cabin he'd bought. This concrete jungle was just... too much. His orcish frame, built for war and endurance, felt out of place, a walking challenge to the city's ceaseless clamor.
Nothing here for him... except for Rumbleshanks.
Bless the old troll.
His presence was a grounding weight in the chaos of Zarokh's mind. Rumbleshanks' old, stooped, twelve-foot frame was a landscape of wrinkled, slate-grey skin, thick as ancient bark. Rough moss and small, stubborn twigs grew in the deep crevices of his back and shoulders, like he was slowly returning to the earth he sprang from.
Rumbleshanks laughed, a low, rumbling sound that shook the pavement beneath them, whenever Zarokh dared to ask his age. His deep brown eyes, almost lost in the intricate web of wrinkles fanning out from their corners, twinkled with a wisdom that spanned centuries. "Older than you, your father... maybe even your father's father, little orc."
*Little orc.* Zarokh grinned, a flash of white tusk. He was nine feet tall, a hulking mass of scarred muscle, towering over most creatures, a walking nightmare for many. But to Rumbleshanks, he was "little." Zarokh owed him his life, whatever twisted, tormented thing it had become.
The old troll had found him, not with a gentle hand, but with the brutal efficiency of a mountain moving. He'd pulled Zarokh off of his bloody victim in a bar deep in the grimy underbelly of the city.
The rage had consumed him then, a red-hot inferno that burned away everything but the primal need to inflict pain, to punish the insolence. His knuckles were raw, split, and slick with gore, his black T-shirt was torn, clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, his tusks dripping. He was a beast, an unchained fury, roaring and thrashing, but Rumbleshanks had simply reached for him.
It hadn't been an option to resist. Rumbleshanks' mighty hand, like a gnarled tree trunk, had closed around the back of Zarokh's shirt, a fistful of his collar, and with a grunt that barely disturbed the air, he'd flung Zarokh to the sidewalk outside the ruined bar.
Zarokh landed on his ass with a jarring thud, the impact barely registering through the lingering adrenaline. He glared up at Rumbleshanks, his amber eyes blazing with residual fury, his body still vibrating with violence. "Aren't you a little far away from your bridge, grandpa?" he seethed, the words a low growl.
Rumbleshanks merely squatted, the movement slow and deliberate, and then sat beside Zarokh, his rough, stone-like skin grinding like a rock on the pavement. The stench of stale ale, blood, and Zarokh's own potent rage hung heavy in the air. "You served?" he asked gently, his voice surprisingly soft, a balm against the raw edges of Zarokh's soul.
Zarokh's eyes fell to his tattoos, intricate, dark markings that snaked up his arms and across his chest. Each line, each symbol, a brand of his tribe, his station, his rank in a war he still fought in his sleep. "Yes," he rasped, running a hand up and down the marked skin, a desperate, futile gesture. These were the marks he would have sold his soul to remove, the indelible proof of a past he longed to forget, a past that still fueled the dark anger simmering just beneath his skin.
"And did time?" Rumbleshanks continued, his gaze unwavering, but devoid of judgment.
Zarokh nodded, scrubbing the back of his hand across his clenched jaw, wiping away another smear of blood that wasn't his own. The bloody aftermath was all too familiar, a grim painting of his own fury.
Rumbleshanks nodded too, slowly, thoughtfully. He didn't ask more, didn't pry into the horrors Zarokh had witnessed or the darkness heโd embraced. He simply understood.
"Well," Rumbleshanks said, his eyes scanning the night-darkened street, "if you are ever looking for work, I own a small handyman company. Myself, a few other veterans. It can be... hard... finding something after, I know. If you're good with your hands, which, judging from the chaos you were causing in there, I think you are," he grinned, a flash of ancient wisdom, before thumping Zarokh on the back with a force that would have shattered a lesser man. "I have a spot for you."
The offer hung in the air, an unexpected lifeline in a sea of Zarokh's own making. No judgment, just an outstretched hand, calloused and moss-grown. It was the first act of genuine kindness he'd received in years, and it struck him with the force of a blow, cutting through the haze of his ingrained rage.
His life was passing... in an oblivion that he was chasing purpose. Time passed in bar fights. Orc breeding stations. Anything to fuck, suck, drink, fight the memories away.
Zarokh had showed up the next day. And the next. Until years had gone by without him even realizing it. He had found a family. It was small. A rough group. Soldiers. Rumbleshanks brought them all together. Took care of them. They would have gone to the deepest holes in hell for him.
So.
When the old troll had called him today, his body not what it was, and asked him to cover a job that he had taken, of course Zarokh had come. Anything for him. Rumbleshanks had chuckled after Zarokh had agreed, his breath wheezing on the call. In a low, graveled voice. "There's one more thing." He added. "What?" Zarokh asked.
"The man came to the shop in person. Picked me for the job. Something about being the least threatening, and he specifically asked for, a non-virile male. Absolutely no orcs. I guess I met the qualifications."
He laughed again. "Soโyou know, try and actโ"
Zarokh sighed... "I get it... that's fucking weird though..."
Rumbleshanks laughed as he hung up. A non-virile male... and here Zarokh was. In front of this fucking two-story suburban hell. Tools slung in the belt on the hips of his low-slung jeans, the denim straining over his thighs. Toolbox in hand. He pulled out his phone again. Fixing a loose railing? Easy. The code for the front door lock was included. He let himself in. Gods...
He walked past the living room. It was all beige. Beige and white and ivory. Sterile. It smelled like bleach, sharp and clean, a suffocating contrast to the rich, earthy scents of the woods he longed for, the scent of his cabin. He'd just do this fucking job and leave. He grumbled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, as he walked past the kitchen, all cold steel and polished tile, and found the stairs leading to the second floor. The railing was sagging. Barely connected to the drywall anymore. This was it. He set his toolbox down on the stairs. Just as he was pulling out his hammer, he heard it.
Soft singing, coming closer, small footsteps echoing overhead and coming closer. It was beautiful. A free-sounding voice, clear and sweet, like a mountain spring after a long winter.
It felt like sunshine creeping across his mind, a warmth he hadn't realized he craved. *Oh shit,*
He thought he was going to be alone. Why did he get a code if someone was going to be home?
The footsteps came closer, down the stairs, and suddenly a big blue laundry basket came into view around the corner on the steps just above him. Small, pale legs with painted pink toenails were all he could see, so delicate, so utterly feminine, and a messy bunch of curly red hair, like a fiery halo, above the pile.
"Waitโbe careful!" he tried to yell, his voice a guttural warning, but she didn't hear him, couldn't see him, and tripped on his toolbox.
She screamed, a sharp, startled sound, and the laundry flew into the air, a colorful explosion. The laundry basket shot past his headโhe ducked just in time, his arms instinctively reaching out, grabbing her body, pulling her tight against him.
"I've got you," he rumbled, the words vibrating through his chest, deep and low. She struggled in his arms, a soft, yielding friction that ignited something primal inside him.
He was suddenly aware of how warm she was, how utterly, vibrantly alive. Her curves, soft and yielding, pressed into the unyielding muscle of his chest, her round breasts cushioning against him. Her soft stomach flattened against his hard, scarred abdomen, and the feel of her small, delicate ass nestled perfectly in his massive hands was an electric shock.
*Shitโhow would a non-virile male handle this?* His breath hitched, a desperate, silent gulp. His cock, a heavy, thick column of iron, stirred, then surged to a massive, throbbing erection against the denim of his jeans.
She tugged off the bubblegum pink headphones that covered her ears, pulling away the soft yellow bralette that had landed over her face. And looked up into his eyes.
His mouth felt bone dry, his throat suddenly tight. Her green eyes were like a clear green sea, deep and inviting, the small flecks of blue within them like the waves that swelled. Her small, cute nose was dusted with freckles, each one a tiny, tempting detail, and her full, pink lips were parted, a silent invitation. Time felt like it had slowed down, stretching into an eternity.
He wanted her. Gods, he wanted her with a primal ache that resonated in his bones.
She had stopped struggling, her body now pliant and warm against his, but he set her down quickly, carefully, his movements almost frantic, putting a foot of distance between her and his twitching, painfully engorged cock. She glanced down, her gaze lingering for just a fraction of a second, and he knew she'd seen it.
He gritted his teeth, a low growl escaping his throat. *Self-control.* "Sorryโ" he started again, his voice rough, "it's not youโ" He gestured down at himself, a desperate, flustered movement. "Orcs are very... sensitive, that's why they have those breeding stationsโ"
Gods dammit, kill him now. The words tumbled out, a pathetic, self-sabotaging mess.
She stepped back, a small, uncertain movement. He didn't want her to. He could smell her, a sweet, intoxicating mix of sweat from cleaning, a musk that made his mouth water, a faint hint of her own unique scent.
His eyes devoured her. Her round, full breasts, braless beneath the worn, thin purple top, rose and fell with each breath. The beautiful floral tattoos on her thigh and calf. Her ass, plump and inviting, was barely covered by small grey cotton underwear, a glimpse of pure, unadorned sexiness that made his entire body thrum with a desperate, aching need.
