Hello, dear! Unfortunately, I am not taking writing requests as of this moment, but your idea is so amazing and unique! I hope a list of headcanons will suffice.
This orc is a bit of a black sheep and his extended family still doesn’t understand quite why he decided to work at a stuffed toy shop of all things, but his parents have grown to accept it. His younger siblings love him for it, though. He lets them pick out whatever they want during the holidays, and he’ll often give them gifts on other days just because.
He told you that the reason he decided to work there was because, during his turbulent childhood, he turned to a stuffed wolf named Fenrir for comfort, since his parents were out working and he was the eldest child. He said he wanted to provide other kids with companions to help them face the world like Fenrir had helped him.
He still has Fenrir. The wolf’s fur is faded and it’s sporting a stitch or two, but otherwise it looks none the worse for decades’ worth of wear.
He’s a bit shy, and it took you a while to get him to open up, but when you did, you found a funny, sweet guy whose only wish is to make others smile. Your first date consisted of watching romantic comedies, eating freshly baked cookies, and lots of cuddling.
He loves complimenting you and calling you pet names like “honey bunny.” He couldn’t stop smiling the moment you called him “teddy bear.”
He proposed to you on your birthday. When he gave you a stuffed bear, he told you to press its paw. That activated a recording of his voice, telling you how happy you had made him and how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.
Here you are! Here’s 900 or so words, or exactly 30 sentences, of this boy. He’s adorable, and it’s always a pleasure to work with someone’s OC, even if it’s a little nerve-racking. As with any work I do with someone’s OC, it’s an interpretation of their OC, based on the info they give me. I hope you enjoy it!
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The moment your friend had told you that the large,
abandoned, Victorian house in the woods had been bought, you felt a thrill of
hope run through you for the old, run-down building. It was a glorious example
of the period, with stunning carved woodwork and original (if weathered)
features, a large wrap-around porch, and sash windows that glinted in the sun.
You’d always imagined that perhaps an elderly harpy would buy it, or maybe some
woods witch or other would move in and form close friendships with the
cervitaurs and other forest dwellers…
The autumn day had started out fine when you’d set out from
the edge of town, but the further you got up the winding, potholed track, the
more the wind picked up, cantankerously tugging at your hair and collar, and a
light mizzle began to drift down between the pines and oaks that lined your
usual walking path through the forest.
With a shudder as a trickle of rainwater dribbled down your
neck, you began to climb the hill towards the old house, and heard the steady ‘swish-crack-swish-crack’
of someone chopping logs for firewood. The track ran right past the house which
stood in its own little clearing, and as you squinted though the drizzle, you
saw a tall figure, hunched over against the weather, with an axe in his hands.
Long, floppy, caramel coloured rabbit’s ears hung down on either side of his
face, and his hunched, powerful shoulders were frankly massive; in contrast to
the bulk of his long, muscular arms, his waist was slim, and his thighs, which
were fitted into some gorgeous, form-fitting leggings, were toned and lean. His
feet – half masked by the long grass beneath them – were astonishingly
delicate, in the way that hares’ and rabbits’ feet are, and there was even a
little gap in the back of his leggings for a little sandy-coloured tail which
twitched and bobbed every now and again.
His left ear shifted slightly at the sound of your boots
squelching on the muddy track, and in an heartbeat he had whipped around and
turned to stare straight at you. Your footsteps faltered at the sight of his
unusual, blazing purple eyes which were unmistakably glaring furiously in the
dim mist of the afternoon. The way he held the axe couched casually between his
big hands suddenly sent a thrill through you, and regret and dread blossomed in
your chest at the thought that this beautiful house had been purchased by
someone who seemed so hostile and unkind.
“Hello!” you called, aiming for jovial as you raised an arm.
He raised his lip and showed you surprisingly sharp teeth
before growling, “You’re trespassing: get off my property.”
“Actually, this track is a public right of way,” you gabbled
quickly, “But I have to admit I was curious to see who bought the house that I
pass on my walks.”
“Well, now you know, and you also know that he doesn’t like
visitors.”
And with that, he turned his broad back on you and returned
to the regular rhythm of chopping wood.
To say that you were disappointed with your first encounter
with the rabbit-like creature who had moved in would have been an
understatement, but you didn’t give up, and you certainly didn’t alter your
walking route to avoid his house on your way out to the wild heathland beyond.
One hot summer day, as you were returning from a
particularly long hike, you saw him sitting on the front step with his chin in
his hand, the other outstretched, feeding bird seeds to a tiny wren.
For months now, he had been cold, distant, even hostile
towards you whenever you’d seen him in passing, but seeing that gesture made
your heart flutter, and you forgot your apprehension for a moment as you
stopped to watch him; he had a gentle heart after all.
He looked up at you and lifted his velvet-soft ear out of
the way with his free hand, revealing his purple eyes. When you said nothing
but simply smiled, nodded politely, and moved to walk on, feeling the thick,
cloying thirst only increasing the longer you went without water, he stood
suddenly, scaring the bird away, and he said, “Hey, um, miss?”
You froze, but turned back to look at him with curiosity and
no small amount of trepidation.
He swallowed, shuffled his feet slightly, then sighed and
looked directly at you. “It’s hot,” he said awkwardly, “And I was wondering if
you wanted something to drink. I realise I’ve been…” he gave another enormous
sigh, “… been somewhat unkind to you. I’d like to make it up to you.”
With a warm smile, you approached through the wrought-iron
gate to the small garden which he’d cultivated that spring around his house,
and unlaced your dusty boots on the veranda before following him inside.
Everything was arranged just-so, and he’d really kept the character of a
Victorian home in his renovations of the place. When you told him as much while
he was pouring you a glass of cordial, he turned back to look at you and thank
you, and as your gaze slid from his purple eyes with their eerie black sclera,
you noticed that his pink nose was shaped almost perfectly like a little heart.
It began with that first proffered glass of sweet
elderflower cordial, and you found yourself stopping by Victor’s house every
time you went for a walk after that. On some occasions he would come with you
on your hike, and he gradually began to open up to you, revealing a sweet and
intelligent nature behind his prickly armour, and on other occasions, you never
made it another step past his house before he had wrapped those long and
powerful arms around you, swept you off your feet, and taken you away upstairs.
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Thank you for the ko-fis! I really appreciate your support!!
Want a drabble all of your own? Buy me a ko-fi, and specify any monster/reader/(n)sfw combination, and it’s yours!! The monster doesn’t have to be one of my existing ones! One ko-fi buys you 10 sentences, and feel free to stack ko-fis up to create a longer story! (10-sentence drabbles tag – some nsfw in there too)
here have a nervous idiot and a cute bug alien for ur idiot and alien needs. dimitri (the sort-of-human) is like 300% hangups and nerves so he dies inside when io does anything romance or Horny (however he gets v into it)
Originally, your orc boyfriend lived in the apartment next door. When he saw you, he was positively enchanted but couldn’t muster up the courage to talk to you at first. So, for several months, you kept receiving anonymous love notes and bouquets of flowers.
You finally got together after a power outage. You didn’t have any candles or fresh batteries, so you went over to ask your handsome orc neighbor if he had anything to spare. His flushed countenance and stammering as well as a fresh bouquet on his counter gave him away as your secret admirer. You invited him over for dinner the next night, and you’ve been seeing each other ever since.
It never ceases to make you internally laugh at the fact that people tend to avoid you when you’re both out purely because your boyfriend is built like a tank when, in reality, he’s a complete and utter softie. Whereas you’re willing to start and finish arguments, he’s a pacifist by nature. He won’t even kill a bug. You told him to kill the cockroach you found under the sink; he doesn’t know it, but you saw him put it outside. You even swore that you heard him whisper, “Stay safe, little buddy.”
Your boyfriend is introverted and would rather spend his day with you or a few close friends/family rather than a large group. He will go to parties and crowded places to please you, but he does get exhausted rather easily, so you make sure to give him time to recharge.
He loves to give you hugs. You oftentimes have to shoo him away while you’re cooking or cleaning because he doesn’t want to let go.
You are his entire world. Despite your protests, he makes sure to give you gifts for little things like month anniversaries, and he reminds you every day of how beautiful you are and how fortunate he is to have you in his life.
A bit of an experiment. I wanted to try something different and came up with this… Drabble i suppose is the right word.
Warnings: they’re fucking, reader is gn and has no specified genitals
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Gentle kisses down a curved spine.
Breathless, waiting for permission.
Nails digging into soft flesh, leaving cresent moons among galaxies of bruises.
Anticipation turns to lust, warmth engulfing.
Inhuman noises fill the air, unearthly strength keeps you down.
He’s not human anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.
Moves like a stormy ocean rocking you to your core, making you sing in a langue only lovers comprehend.
He’s so cold against you, the contrast overwhelming.
An arm you can barely see ensnares your midriff, pulls you closer so tightly it feels you’ll merge with him.
There’s desperation behind his actions, a fright he’ll never get to do this again. So you ease his worry, say his name to bring him back.
He slows down, takes his time, savoring you.
He sings you praises in languages he had centuries to master but you can’t comprehend. His tone betrays him, though.
Hands explore you with endless curiosity as lust starts to take you both. He goes first, holding onto you crushingly tight. You follow, feverish and out of breath from the intensity of it all.
When you open your eyes he’s gone again, faded into the shadows of the room, watching, waiting.
Soon, his strength will return. And soon, he’ll share your bed once more.
After a good hour or so of perusing your matches, you decided to revisit one that had previously caught your eye. His profile was heart-warming, to say the least. In between pictures of sunsets and what you presumed was his family were stills of a nearby daycare and gap-toothed, smiling children. You decided that one photo taken a week before was your favorite. In it, he was using his eight legs to hang upside down on yellow-painted monkey bars. A Gnoll toddler hung from his hands. The picture caught the child mid-squeal, and you couldn’t help but appreciate the way the drider’s four silver eyes twinkled as he smiled.
You’d always loved children. There was just something about their sense of wonder that was delightfully contagious. When having a bad day, all you’d need to do was walk by the local park and see the little ones’ wide eyes and hear their laughter in order to feel the dark clouds over your head dissipate. Your early jobs consisted of babysitting for old neighbors and, since your parents had full-time jobs, you often stayed home to care for your younger siblings. The fact that you found someone who was good with kids was already promising. And a spider, too. Ironic, given the insect’s reputation, but you were living in a world where centaurs and werewolves sat side by side with humans on buses and in restaurants. Stranger things had happened.
You clicked on the chat button, about to send him a message, before you saw that he beat you to the punch.
Walter: Good afternoon! How are you? I’m Walter. It’s really nice to meet you!
Walter: I love the pics on your profile! Do you paint?
Walter: Oh, oops lol you probably already knew my name. Sorry.
You held a knuckle to your lips and stifled a few giggles, partially because a drider had an ordinary name like Walter Reed and partially because he sounded just as exuberant as he looked in the last photo.
Summary: You’re the curator of a local museum and you often stay working well past dusk, cataloguing existing materials and arranging for new ones to be brought in. It might seem like a tedious job to others, but your love of history sustains you more than coffee ever could. However, when love poems and jewelry from the Egyptian exhibit keep appearing on your desk, your job gets that much more interesting. You realize that the mummified pharaoh isn’t as dead as previously believed.
You had been working at the local Museum of Natural History for about three months when it started happening. You’d be up late, authorizing the transfer of new artifacts or using the building’s free wi-fi in order to finish some research, and would leave the room for just a moment, only to come back and observe that items from Pharaoh Neferkha’s exhibit had made their way onto your desk. The first item was a golden necklace strung with beads made of lapis lazuli. You initially thought it was a janitor playing a prank. You set the necklace back in its display case and thought nothing of it.
Until it happened again. The second time someone placed an ivory jar of perfume next to your half-finished stack of paperwork. You picked it up gingerly and looked outside into the dimly lit hallway. No one was there. Even the janitors had left for the night.
You placed the jar back and surveyed the pharaoh’s burial chamber, hidden from the main exhibit room by a wall of painted hieroglyphs. Nothing was disturbed.
A few days passed and you had begun to relax, thinking that the prankster had gotten the hint that you wouldn’t be frightened so easily, before you received something new: a love poem etched onto a piece of pottery. Your brow furrowed as you deciphered the hieroglyphs.
Toad's Cave 