He can't freak out here, he can't freak out here...
He's freaking out.
You're sitting on his lap, the back of the car to whatever hell work had planned as a bonding experience for your team had made you need to sit on his lap, and everyone is doubled up, apart from the front two seats, so you're sitting on his lap. He's looking down and seeing your thighs do that thing he only caught glimpses of from under your desk when he came past. You were so warm, so perfectly settled on his lap, it's torture trying not to grab at your legs and dig his fingers into the fat of your thighs like he so desperately wants to.
It's not some rocky stretch or even the other in the car, but a sharp set of bends that has one of his hands pressing down on your legs as the other grabs the handle by the window, holding the two of you steady as the car and all the other in with you jostled and swayed with the turn.
When you Lena back into his chest it takes everything in him to not press his face against your shoulder, to nuzzle and rub his tusks against you as you settle back onto him in a more comfortable way. He doesn't move his hand, the wide splay of his fingers and palm against your thigh either ignored or welcomed by you, he's not sure which is worse but the feeling of being able to.touch you even just like this makes him want to groan. Just barely holding back the noise, covering it up with a clearing of his throat, looking anywhere but at you as he can feel you adjusting your position again, each shift making him more and more aware of how warm, how soft, how perfect you would feel against him properly.
Fuck.
He really hopes this ride ends soon, his starting to sweat hard, and there's not much more he can focus on to keep his cock from making a very large announcement of presence against your ass if this goes any longer...
Not even deep breaths can help him now, not with every inhale carrying whatever scent or body wash you wear.
im ovulating and I know you little freaks KNOW I am an orc girlie okay
and tonight's high thots have me DESPERATE to be bred by a fucking TANK of an orc ok??
a big, brutal fucker absolutely rut drunk coming home from the battlefield and dragging his little mate straight to bed
his weight pressing you deep into the furs, every inch of him heavy, hot, unstoppable, still a warlord even in bed as his tusked mouth drags against your throat as he snarls, hips slamming forward hard enough to rattle the frame beneath you
“mine,” he growls voice a rumble of thunder against your skin. “gonna put heirs in you till you’re round with me. till every bastard in this land sees whose owns you”
each thrust is another claim, brutal and deep, as if he were driving stakes into the ground to mark his territory. his hand spanns your belly possessively, pressing down to feel himself inside you, groaning like the proof of it alone was enough to undo him as you scream and gush around him
he wont stop when he spilled, the bastard doesn't even slow
he just grinds harder, chasing the next peak, desperate to pump more of himself into you. sweat dripping from his temples, tusks grazing your jaw as he kisses you almost tenderly, even as his body breaks you open again and again and again and again
and when his roar finally shakes the rafters, he collapses over you, massive chest heaving, lips dragging reverent along your temple. still buried deep, still twitching inside you, purring low in his throat in a sound of victory, of possession, of a beast who had conquered and would never let go
ya know what I'm sayin????
and all the gods help us when you DO finally get heavy with his babies
The beach isn't usually your favourite place to be, but today... Today, might just be the best day at the beach yet.
Just down from you is a group of orc boys, well men, but the way they are all laughing and playing it seems like pure boyish fun. There were water guns and buckets of water being thrown at each other, but the real jewel of the sight was simply all of them together. The thick thighs, the soft layer of fat over solid muscles, some clean shaven and others with scruffy beards, capped tusks glinting, messy black hair in buns or loose salt and peppers streaked curls in damp messes as they shake out the water.
You feel like a perv as you watch them, beside you an older centaur woman looks over her sunglasses, clicking here tongue as she takes in the sight. She sighs and looks at you, commenting that if only she was a few decades younger, but at least she still gets to browse the menu, winking as she pushes up her sunglasses and goes back to the book open in her hands.
It's instinctive how you jolt when one of them accidentally comes tumbling next to your towel, landing on his back and getting the air knocked out of him for a moment. Looking down at him you feel your face heat, he's prettier up close, soft brown eyes look back up at you before he winks and scrambles back towards the other orcs, shaking off the sand from his arms and legs before the group begins play fighting again.
Looking a little beyond the group you find more of them, this one is older, relaxed on a towel with sunglasses on and more grey white hair than the mess of black and grey the rough housing ones have. Spying a gym name on the cooler by him, you take a gamble and look them up, it's a local place and on their website is a picture of all the orc men together, all flexing and oiled for competition, an oil wrestling team apparently.
Maybe- Just maybe, you can become a sports fan. If only for a sight like this more often...
HI !! I was wondering if you could do more orc based monster stories? Perhaps with a fem reader being taken hostage by a older rugged orc leader ? Thank you!! Love your work and may you have both sides of the pillow cold °^°
I most certainly can! Plus, I am certainly glad you like my stuff, and I will be taking that both sides cold as it is going to be 36 today, and I wanna die :(
Anyway, I may have gone a little off script with this, but! Still rugged old orc chief? Yes, please.
-
When they came through your town, you knew they would likely claim some noble's kid as ransom, and then the rest of you would have to help cough up the coin to pay for the poor kid's return. However, when the orc clan came to collect their pay for some mercenary work they'd done, it wasn't some noble's kid that got snatched, but you and two others from the commoners' areas.
The orc that was carrying you was a strong woman, older and more scared than the rest of the band that had come through your town, but still just as tall and thickly muscled.
She wasn't the one claiming you, no, unlike the other two that got snatched up. You were a gift from this orcish lady to the clan leader, a bargaining trade for the right to claim a spouse in the next raids. The moment they had passed through the small forest that sheltered your town and entered the stronghold, you were dropped off with a few other women, elves, goblins, and humans. They were all batering chips being peddled and traded off, but once again, as you settled and resigned yourself to what will become your life, the door to the hall you were in was opened.
The strongholds' chief stalks along the groups of you all, grunting at certain ones and telling the orc behind him to let them go, pointing out illness, injury, and the beginnings of pregnancy.
When he rounds on you, he stops, tilting his head, ornaments of iron, bone, gold and bronze gimmer and click together as he kneels in front of you and smiles. One of his tusks is capped with gold, and the other half is missing; he has lines from laughter and smiles mixed with the deep lines of scowls and snarls. His hair is long, deep black with faded grey and white streaks beginning to appear.
It moves and slides across his shoulder as he tilts his head and nods at you, telling the orc behind him to get you cleaned up and sent to his home in the stronghold. It seems the orc woman who wanted a spouse would get her wish, the younger orc behind him nods, and soon you are being moved again, guided and shuffled to a large home.
The bath they draw for you is clearly one made for the orc chief. You feel like a child as you sit in it, trying to keep the water out of your eyes and nose as an older orcish woman scrubs at your hair, tutting about human lords and the lack of care they have for their people. By the time you're done and dried, you feel cleaner than you ever had back in the town you lived, sure, you bathed, but this was a whole new level. You had been washed, scrubbed, oiled, and balmed to the point of pure softness.
Standing in front of the fireplace, you can't help but wonder what the chief will want with you, a wife? A servant? A plaything? All three? You're deep in those spiralling thoughts when the door opens, and he steps in.
Kicking off his boots before striding over to where you stand, the difference between you and him is staggering; your head barely reaches his shoulders, and as he reaches out to touch your hair, you can't help but flinch slightly. He laughs and calls you 'little doe' before repeating the motion, rubbing a little of your hair between his fingers and humming softly at the feeling.
You're not sure what to make of him before you are being hefted and moved, the chair he settles into by the fire is bigger than him still, being made to straddle his lap as he looks you over again. Still smiling as he grunts at you, remarking that you may just be the best prize they have claimed from a payment raid yet.
The picture is of her in the back area of her butcher shop, flexing with her biggest knife, there's blood on her arms, apron, and cheek somehow, her tusks look yellow under the shitty lighting, but she's smiling and winking in the picture as she texts you some cheesy line about meat or bones that is a little cringe worthy.
'You bagged one lucky butcher, because you're looking at the tenderest loin in the shop.'
For all the years you've been with your wife, one thing has not changed, she is a complete failure with romance and flirting. You'd thought her cute when you first met her, shed cracked a few bad butcher related puns before almost closing the sliding panel of the display cabinet on one of her fingers, and now after a decade of marriage she is still hopeless when it comes to talking with you or hitting on you.
Smiling to yourself you text her back, telling her you love her and will see her when she gets home. Going back to your work, still smiling as you think about your wife at work posed up like a fool when she took that photo.
On the other side of town, she's smiling giddy as she tucks her phone into the back of her work pants and gets back into her work as a butcher. Joking to the apprentice they have at the shop that a good butcher or meat pun can land you an absolute hottie of a partner, the poor young man was eager to learn and took in both this advice and the professional kind she gave him, unintentionally creating another slightly awkward but endearing person for behind the counter of this particular butchers shop.
The walls in this apartment are very, very thin and you don't think your roommate knows that...
In the kitchen you had been struggling with opening a jar for the pasta you were making, even going as far as tapping and denting the lid to try and make the seal weaker, but no matter what it seems you were losing to a jar of tomato paste in your own kitchen. Sulking for a few moments before considering other ways to open the jar, was all your roommate needed to step in, the orcish woman picking it up and grunting as she twisted the lid off.
You're not even sure why it came out of your mouth at the sight of her doing that, but you had grunted in return, a short huff of the word 'hot' before snatching the jar out of her hands and greedily dumping what you needed of it into the pasta sauce. Completely unaware of how flustered your simple remark had left her, missing how she stuttered something in response before ambling off to her room, you were too focused on the meal to listen properly.
By the time everything was done you had gone looking for her, checking all the usual spots before heading for her room.
Not even near the door, but by the wall that you know her bed sits against you can hear her, grunting and moaning what you can just barely make out as your name. Half of you wants to walk away and give her some privacy, and the other half wants to slip closer and see just what about you had gotten her so hot and bothered... The nosey part had won out, and you slipped closer to her door, leaning against the wall and listening closely as more groan and sweet noises came slightly muffled through to your ears.
Apparently, your single off-handed, and instinctive comment of calling her strength hot had really got her going.
Now armed with this new knowledge, you half form an idea, to maybe get her to stop just touching herself and perhaps start touching you as well. Slipping back into the kitchen and giving her some more time alone before texting her that food was ready, taking on you need her help as well with something before closing the one cupboard that always got stuck and pretending that you desperately needed it open when she came into the kitchen.
The apartment walls are thin, and they may just help get you into a relationship...
so fucking *gentle* with his precious little human wife
bringing her flowers, always carrying her on his shoulder in crowds so she doesn't get jostled
his sweet little plum, so soft and kind, feeding strays, feeding the neighbors, making sure her big boy has all the food he could ever want
but at home, when that big ol husband of hers comes home from the forge, she is *feral*
masterlist Here
Like… big orc husband, calloused hands from the forge, broad enough that he has to duck through doorframes, tusks catching the light when he grins at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters. Everyone thinks he’s terrifying—because of course they do—but they don’t see how he crouches down so she can fix the little curl of hair over his ear before he goes to work, or how he carries her on his shoulder at the market so she dosent have to feel the crush of the crowd.
And her? Sweetest damn thing in the village. Always with flour on her hands from baking too much bread because “what if the neighbors run out?” She gives the best hugs, the kind that smell like sugar and soap, and every single stray animal within a mile radius has tried to follow her home at least once. She makes the whole damn village feel warmer just by existing.
But behind their cottage door?
That’s when she turns into the dangerous one.
Because when her orc comes home, smelling of hot iron and cedar smoke, sweat rolling down those carved-out shoulders—she’s already halfway across the room, tugging at him before he’s even set down his hammer. His huge hands are barely out of his gloves before she’s climbing into his lap, breathless, muttering how she’s been thinking about him all day. And he just… melts for her. He’d let her bite him if she wanted—hell, she does—all teeth and needy little gasps.
He rumbles low in his chest, but she cuts it off with a sharper bite to his lower lip.
“Quiet,” she murmurs. “You’re mine now, husband. And I’ve been waiting all damn day.”
He swallows hard. That mountain of muscle, that warrior who could shatter a man’s skull with one blow, stands still for her.
“Cherub—”
The look she gives him silences him instantly. “Don’t call me that right now.” Her hand slides down his chest, deliberate, claiming, until she palms the growing heat between his legs. “You want sweet? You get that when I’m finished with you.”
A groan escapes him before he can stop it, tusks bared in something between a snarl and a plea.
She grins. Perfect.
“On your knees.”
He obeys—of course he obeys—dropping down until she towers over him for once, her fingers tangling in his hair. She tilts his head back, forcing those molten eyes up at her. That sheer, obedient mass of him, kneeling at her feet, makes her pulse roar in her ears.
“You work all day thinking you’re the strong one,” she says softly, trailing her nails along the curve of one tusk. “But you forget… I’m the one who decides when you get fed. And how.”
Her thumb presses to his lips. “Open.”
He obeys instantly, mouth parting, his hot breath brushing her skin. She slips her thumb between his tusks and presses down, watching the way his pupils blow wide, the way his breath stutters. His huge hands twitch against his thighs, wanting to touch, but she shakes her head.
“Not yet. You don’t touch me until I say so.”
The way his jaw flexes tells her just how much it costs him. Good. Let him ache for it.
She leans in close, her mouth brushing the point of his ear. “Get on the bed, dearest. Lie on your back.”
He moves like a man under a spell, the floor creaking under his weight as he obeys. The bed looks small under him—gods, he’s huge—and she climbs up after him, swinging one leg over his hips until she’s straddling the broad expanse of his stomach.
His hands rise instinctively to grip her hips, but she catches his wrists and presses them to the mattress.
“You want to touch?” Her voice is a purr now, sweet and terrible. “Earn it.”
The needy sound he makes right then is everything.
And that’s before she even starts to really ruin him.
He’s beautiful like this.
Flat on his back, all that impossible muscle laid out beneath her, tusks bared in something that is neither a growl nor a moan, wrists pinned under her hands. A mountain of a man reduced to stillness because she told him to stay there.
She rolls her hips once—just enough to drag her clothed heat over the thick ridge pressing up against her through his trousers—and the sound he makes goes straight to her core.
“Gods, cherub…” he groans, voice breaking on her pet name, but she cuts him off with a sharp little shake of her head.
“I told you,” she purrs, grinding a little harder now, “that name is for when I’m feeling sweet. Does this look sweet to you?”
His golden eyes go heavy-lidded, chest rising and falling like he’s just run miles. “No,” he rasps. “You look… like trouble.”
She smiles like a predator. “Good boy.”
With deliberate slowness, she reaches back to unlace his trousers, tugging them down just enough to free him. He’s already hard—thick, heavy, flushed dark—and her breath catches at the sight of him. His hips twitch, seeking more friction, but her grip on his wrists tightens.
“Don’t move,” she warns, dragging her nails lightly over the sensitive skin at his tip. His head falls back against the pillow with a growl that is all need and no threat.
She shifts forward, tugging her skirts up around her waist until there’s nothing between them. The first slide of him against her is perfect—heat meeting heat, slick pooling between them.
His breath stutters. “Please…”
“Please what?” she teases, rocking just enough to coat him in her slick.
“Please—let me in. Need to feel you.”
She leans forward until her lips brush his ear, her voice dropping into a wicked whisper. “You’ll get what I give you, husband. And you’ll thank me for it.”
And then she takes him.
Slow, deliberate, savoring the stretch as she sinks down inch by thick inch, keeping her eyes locked on his until she’s seated fully, her hips flush to his. His jaw goes slack, a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan spilling from him.
“Gods above,” he rasps, eyes wide, reverent. “You feel… you feel like—”
“Like I own you?” she offers, grinding down until his breath hitches again.
“Yes,” he admits, voice breaking. “Yes. Always.”
She sets the pace—slow at first, just enough to make him twitch under her, his abs trembling from the restraint it takes not to buck up into her. Then she speeds up, hips rolling hard enough to make the bed creak, to have him choking out her name like a prayer.
Every thrust is hers. Every desperate sound. Every tiny tremor in his massive frame.
He’s wrecked for her—his golden eyes glassy, sweat running down his temples, jaw clenched against the pleasure threatening to undo him. And gods, she loves it.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, leaning down to brush her lips over his. “My big, strong husband… nothing but a good boy under me.”
“Yours,” he groans, and his hips jerk despite himself.
She grins wickedly. “That’s right. And you’ll stay here until I’m done with you.”
He lasts maybe another minute before he’s breaking apart—trembling, moaning, spilling deep inside her while she rides him through it, milking him until his voice goes ragged and his body goes boneless beneath her.
Only then does she slow, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “That’s my good boy,” she whispers, finally loosening her grip on his wrists.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t even try. Just lies there, utterly spent, eyes still fixed on her with that same stunned reverence.
And she smiles, because she knows tomorrow she’ll be back to being the sweet, flour-dusted cherub everyone adores.
But tonight?
She’s the one who left her big, dangerous orc husband wrecked and whimpering in their bed.
You loved the party you're in, you do, but recently it has gotten a little out of hand.
The paladin is too busy chasing the warlock to actually keep to their oath bound path, the warlock just wants to go home and read, the wizard spends most days tweaking one of their spells on random things you pass by, and the only other one in your group bar you, is a scrawny orc rogue. All things considered, it's an okay party not the greatest when it comes to healing everyone, but you always make it work, somehow...
Tonight is one of those nights where you're a hairs breadth from leaving, sitting by the fire watching the paladin try to buff out scorch marks from the pate mail on his shins as the wizard has spent the last thirty minutes explaining that the area of effect on their spell was visible, and that the paladin was a fool for not seeing the glowing ring of yellow before trying to shield bash the target.
To put it lightly, this evening has been annoying, as you finish off your food and move to clean your bowl, you can't help but be a little envious of the orc rogue already having slipped off into the night to do whatever it is he does before watch rotation is called.
You already know you're going to get the last watch, it never changes, as you're the easiest to wake but take the longest to fall asleep. With how tonight has been going your calling it early, the more rest you get the better, you really don't want to hear anymore about spell markings or the cost of polish in this market, opening the flap to your tent you had expected your bedroll and maybe the mess of your pack on the floor, not the sight of the parties rogue fisting pair of your smalls in his hand as he kneels by your bedroll mid stroke of his cock.
The loudest thing in your tent at that point was the flap falling back into place, as you stared down the orc in front of you.
This is the most of the rogue you'd actually seen, and for such a slight orc you could still make out the thick corded muscles that came with the level of agility he had. There isn't even so much as a huff or grunt from him as you walk around to sit on the cot your bedroll is on, staring him down as you gesture at him, muttering for him to keep going. You wanted to see just how badly he needed this, or perhaps how bad he wanted you if the way his cock throbbed when you pushed the hand with your smalls in them back towards his face.
Maybe this party had gotten out of hand, but at least you could ignore most of it if the rogue was actually into you. It'd be nice to not bunk down in the next town alone, maybe, just maybe this slip of an orc can show you just how strong archery has made his hands and fingers...
