can you write an imagine where the orc chieftain takes notice of fem!reader after they raided a village and he starts courting her in ways she's not familiar so she's just ignoring him. he got annoyed with the ignoring, so one night, he got so drunk and ended up at her place, he saw her, just finished taking a shower, towel wrapped on her body, he started mumbling how annoyed he is and she just stares at him. then in the middle of it, throws up and ended up sleeping at her couch. she let him, but gets uneasy knowing the chieftain is just outside her room. she approaches her in the middle of the night and starts touching his form. he wakes up, grabs her hand and kisses her. then he confesses his feeling and he ended up railing her so hard she wakes up with bruised cervix. plsss help a girl out
The Way Orcs Love: Part 1 (Orc Chieftain x f!Reader)
After orcs raid your village, the chieftain becomes obsessed with courting you. You ignore his advances because you don't understand orc customs. One night, he is frustrated and drunk, and he stumbles into your home and everything changes...
TW: chieftain/commoner, village raid, drunkenness, courting, size difference, kissing, grinding, dirty talk, emotional, primal, breast worship, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, orgasm denial, P in V, cervix bruising, pain kink, aftercare.
A/N: Hey friend! I'm so so sorry it took so much to work on this. I added extra stuff and I am planning a short, fluffy EPILOGUE too, so I hope they make it up to you!
Also, this request gave me old-time vibes, so I imagined it in a medieval-like setting! I only changed your "throwing up" idea because it was easier to get inspired and write the smut without it. So, our big dumb orc just gets gloriously drunk and emotional. Enjoyyyyy!!
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Three moons have passed since the orcs swept through your village.
You remember the chaos, the screaming, the clang of weapons, the way the earth shook beneath boots the size of your forearm.
But you also remember him. The chieftain. Standing a head taller than his warriors, tusks gleaming, his emerald eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on you.
And then... nothing.
He took your supplies. Your livestock. A few crates of dried meat your grandmother had salted last winter. But not a single villager died. Not even old Martha, who threw a chamber pot at his head and called him a "green-skinned devil."
He left you all breathing. Bruised, terrified, but alive.
And then he started coming back.
Not with his war band. Not with weapons. Just him, alone, every few days. Appearing at the edge of your house with offerings that make absolutely no sense to you.
A perfectly smooth river stone.
An eagle feather.
A pouch of extremely expensive orcish mead.
A freshly killed rabbit.
You've accepted none of it.
Not because you're ungrateful. Not because you don't notice the way his broad shoulders slump a little more each time you shake your head and turn away. But because what is happening?
You're a weaver. A nobody. You mend shirts and spin wool and occasionally help the blacksmith's wife pull weeds from her vegetable patch. You are human, not a female orc for chieftains to leave offerings.
So you ignore him.
You ignore the way his gaze follows you when you walk to the stream to wash clothes.
You ignore the way he grumbles under his breath when you pretend not to see the wildflowers he's left on your windowsill.
You ignore the way your heart races every single time, because he's massive, terrifying and yet beautiful in that brutal way orcs are.
You ignore him so thoroughly that you've almost convinced yourself you don't care.
But tonight something is different.
You're standing in your small cottage, a threadbare towel wrapped around your body, hair still dripping from the bath you just took. The fire roars in the hearth, warming you up. You're reaching for your sleeping shift when you hear a thud.
Then a groan.
Then the unmistakable sound of someone large and clumsy attempting to navigate your doorstep.
Had you forgotten to lock? Damn!
The door swings open before you can latch it.
And there he is.
The chieftain.
Drunk.
His green skin is flushed across his cheekbones, his green eyes glassy and unfocused. He sways on his feet, one massive hand braced against the doorframe to keep himself upright. His tunic is unlaced, revealing his broad chest and the dark hair trailing down his ridged stomach.
He blinks at you.
Slowly.
Like he's trying to figure out if you're real.
"Youâ" He hiccups, then points a wavering finger at your face. "You."
You clutch the towel tighter, suddenly very aware that you're wearing almost nothing. "Chieftain. It's the middle of the night."
"Is it?" He squints toward the window, as if confirming this information. "Huh."
"You're drunk."
"Yes." He says it like he's proud of it.
"You should go home."
He doesn't move. His gaze drifts down from your face, lingers on the curve of your shoulder where the towel has slipped, on your damp throat, on the swell of your breasts. His throat works. His jaw tightens.
"Can't," he says.
"Can't what?"
"Can't go home." He takes a staggering step inside, and you instinctively step back. The movement makes your towel hitch higher on your thighs. His eyes track the motion. "Home doesn't have you."
Your heart hammers. "Chieftainâ"
"Kolf," he says. "My name. Use it. Please. Please. I'm so tired of 'Chieftain.' I'm tired of you ignoring me. I'm tired of leaving you presents you never touch. I'm tired of smelling you on the wind and not being ableâ"
He breaks off, swaying again, and catches himself on your table.
A clay cup topples and rolls to the floor.
You stare at him.
Kolf. You don't want to say his name out loud. You are scared it will affect you in ways you wouldn't expect.
"Why?" you whisper.
"Why what?"
"Why are youâ" You gesture at him, at the door, at the entire impossible situation. "Doing this?"
"Because you're mine."
"I'm what?"
"Mine," he says powerfully. "I saw you. During the raid. Standing in front of your grandmother. Little thing, shaking like a leaf, but you didn't run. You didn't beg. You justâ" He exhales, dragging a hand through his dark hair. "Stood there. Looked at me like I was the monster everyone says I am, but you didn't flinch."
Your throat tightens. "I was terrified."
"I know." He takes another step closer, and this time, you don't move back. "But you didn't run. Do you know how rare that is? How fucking rare?"
"Kolfâ" You bite your lips. Damn...now you'd done it now.
"I brought you things. Good things! Pretty things. Things orc males give females they want to court. And you... you just kept ignoring me."
You open your mouth to explain, to tell him that you didn't know, that no one ever taught you orc courting customs, that you thought he was just taunting youâ
But he doesn't let you speak.
"I like you! I like the way you hum when you work. I like the way you roll your eyes at the sky when it rains. I like the way your nose crinkles when you're annoyed, and you're almost always annoyed, and I like it. I like you. And you won't even look at me."
He's standing close now. Close enough that you can smell the mead on his breath, the pine and earth of his skin, the heat radiating off his massive body. His chest rises and falls in ragged breaths. His eyes, that impossible green, are glossy.
"You need toâ"
"I'm sorry," he blurts. "For the raid. For taking your things. For scaring you. I didn't.. I didn't know how else to see you. Your village. Your face. I thought if I came with my warriors, you'dâ" He breaks off. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at words. I'm good at fighting. At leading. At taking what I want. But you... you're not something you take. You're something you earn. And I don't know how to earn youâ"
All of a sudden, his knees buckle.
You lurch forward, catching himâor trying to. He's three times your size, for god's sake. A mountain of muscles and your poor arms barely wrap around his torso. Your strength is not enough and he's going down, dragging you with him.
But he twists at the last second, curling his body around yours, and you land on top of his chest instead of the floor. His back hits the wooden planks with a thud. His eyes flutter.
"Kolf?"
He groans.
"Kolf!"
His breathing evens out. His massive arms, which had somehow wrapped around you, go slack.
He's asleep.
Face wrinkling, you push yourself up, staring down at the unconscious orc sprawled across your floor. His lips are parted. His tusks glint. One of his hands is still curled loosely around your ankle.
"Damn it," you whisper.
Eventually, you manage to drag him onto the couch.
It takes an embarrassingly long time. He's heavy. Every limb feels like it's filled with stone. But you push and shove and grunt and curse until his massive frame is folded onto the worn cushions, his boots hanging off one end, his head lolling against the armrest.
You stand back, breathing hard, and look at him.
The fire is low now, crackling and the dim light paints his face in warm gold. In sleep, he looks younger and softer. The hard lines of his jaw relax. His brow smooths. One of his hands twitches, reaching for something that isn't there, and settles on his chest.
He brought you gifts, you think. For three moons. And you ignored him.
Because you didn't understand.
Because no one ever taught you that an orc chieftain leaving an eagle feather on your windowsill meant I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.
Because you're stubborn and scared and so used to being invisible that you didn't know what to do with someone seeing you.
You pull a blanket from your bed and drape it over him. He murmurs something in his sleep, a rumble you can't quite make out, and his hand catches the edge of the blanket, pulling it tighter around himself, smelling it, smiling in his sleep.
You should go to your room.
You should.
But your feet won't move.
Instead, you sink onto the floor beside the couch and you watch him.
He likes you.
The thought settles warmly into your chest. He likes you.
And you... foolish, stubborn, terrified you... might like him back.
******
Hours pass. You are in bed but you can't sleep.
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the occasional rumble of his breathing from the other room.
Something in you burns.
You are hot and curious.
You want to see him again.
Sighing, you slip out of bed before you can talk yourself out of it. Your feet carry you barefoot across the cold wooden floor, past the hearth where the fire has died to embers, to the couch where he lies.
He hasn't moved. One arm is thrown over his head, the other draped across his stomach. The blanket has slipped to his waist and his tunic is even more open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that vanishes beneath the waistband of his trousers.
You kneel beside him.
And reach out.
Your fingers hover over his chest then, gently, you touch him.
Warm. He's so warm. His skin is rougher than you expected, textured with scars and raised ridges of old wounds. His chest hair is coarse, curling around your fingers as you press deeper.
He doesn't stir.
Emboldened, you trace the line of his collarbone, the strong column of his throat, the sharp jut of his jaw. His tusks feel smooth and cool.
Beautiful, you think. He's beautiful.
Your hand drifts lower, skimming over his stomach. The muscles there tense beneath your touch, even in sleep, and you feel the hard ridges of his abdomen, the V-shape that disappears beneath his trousers.
Your breath catches.
And his hand catches yours.
"Caught you," he murmurs. His eyes open, just a crack. "Been waiting. For you to touch me."
"Kolfâ"
"You don't get to stop now." He sits up, and you scoot back on your heels, but he follows. His massive hand engulfs yours, pulls it back to his chest, presses your palm flat against his heart. It's pounding. Hard. "Feel that? That's what you do to me. Every time I see you. Every time I smell you."
"Smell me?"
"Like honey." He leans closer, and his free hand cups the back of your neck. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Like mine."
"Y... You're drunkâ"
"Not anymore." His eyes are clear now. "Sober enough to know what I want. Sober enough to know I've wanted it for three fucking moons."
"What do you want?"
He doesn't answer with words.
He kisses you.
His mouth crashes against yours, tasting of mead and something uniquely him. His tusks graze your lower lip, careful, and you gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound, pulls you closer, wraps both arms around you and lifts you onto his lap.
Your knees bracket his hips. Your shiftâgods, you're still only wearing a thin shiftârides up your thighs. His hands settle on your waist, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, grip you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"Tell me to stop," he rasps against your lips. "Tell me no, and I'll stop. I'll walk out that door and never bother you again. But if you want thisâ"
"I want this."
The words leave your mouth before you can think about them. Before you can talk yourself out of them. They are raw and honest, and he breaks.
"Thank the gods," he groans, and he's kissing you again, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands roaming down your back, your hips, your thighs.
"I didn't know," you manage between kisses. "The gifts. The courting. I didn't know."
He pulls back. His eyes are dark, dilated. "What do you mean, you didn't know?"
"No one told me." You press your forehead to his. "I thought you were mocking me. Taunting me. I didn't know orcsâ"
"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips. "Fuck, sweetheart. All this time. You thought I was mocking you?"
"Your people raided my village."
"We took supplies. We didn't hurt anyone. I gave ordersâ" He breathes out harshly. "I'm not good at this. I've neverâI've never wanted anyone like this. I didn't know how toâ" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. For the raid. For scaring you. For not explaining. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
"But Iâ"
"Kolf." You cup his face in your hands, feel the rough stubble on his jaw, the smooth curve of his tusks. "I'm here. I'm choosing to be here. With you. That's what matters."
He smiles. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you softly. Briefly. "Bed?" he murmurs.
"Bed."
He carries you to your bed like you're made of glass. Which is hilarious, because two seconds later, he's tearing the shift off your body and staring at you like he wants to devour you.
"Sweetheart," he rasps. "Look at you."
You're naked beneath him, spread across your thin mattress, and he's still fully clothed. Tunic unlaced, trousers straining over his obvious bulge. A very very prominent bulge. The sight makes your mouth water.
"Too many clothes," you manage.
"Agreed."
He strips without care. Tunic over his head, revealing wide shoulders, a chest carved like granite, and arms thick with muscle and crisscrossed with old scars. His trousers follow, and then hisâ
Oh.
His cock.
You've never been with an orc before. You've heard stories; whispered rumors in the village about what orc males keep between their legs. But stories didn't prepare you for this.
It's massive. Thick and long, veined, the head flushed a darker green, leaking profusely. His balls hang heavy beneath, drawn tight against his body.
"He's friendly," Kolf says, catching you staring. "I promise."
"He's terrifying."
"He'll behave." He crawls onto the bed, over you, caging you with his arms. His thighs bracket yours, and you feel the heat of him, the weight of him. "Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Can't make any promises about the rest of me."
Before you can spiral, he kisses you again. His mouth claims yours, his tongue strokes against your teeth, your palate, everything. You moan into him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him closer.
His hand slides down your body, over your collarbone, your sternum, the curve of your ribs, until he reaches your breast. He cups it, weighs it in his palm, and his thumb drags across your nipple making you gasp.
"Sensitive?" he murmurs against your throat.
"Yes."
"Good."
He bends his mouth to your breast, and you feel his hot tongue lapping at your nipple before drawing it into his mouth. He suckles gently at first, then harder, and you arch off the bed, fingers tangling in his hair.
"Kolfâ"
"So pretty," he murmurs against your skin. "Wanted to do this. For months. Wanted to taste you. Touch you. Hear you."
He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you're wrecked. Your thighs clench around his hips, desperate for friction, for something.
"Please," you whimper.
"Please what?"
"I needâ"
"I know what you need." He kisses down your sternum, your stomach, the jut of your hipbones. "Going to take care of you, sweetheart. Going to worship you."
He settles between your thighs, and you feel his ragged breath against your pussy.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this pretty cunt."
You're soaked. You can feel it the slickness, the way your flesh aches for him.
"Kolfâ"
His mouth covers you, and your thoughts dissolve.
His tongue is everywhere. Lapping at your folds, circling your clit, plunging inside you. He groans against your flesh like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, and his hands grip your thighs, holding you open and immobile for him.
"Ohâ" You buck against his face, and he growls. "Ahh, ghnnnâ"
"So sweet. Tastes like honey. Like mine. Could eat my mate's little cunt forever."
"Kolf, I'm going toâ"
"Not yet." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then your mound, then lower. "Not until I say."
"Hgn... that's cruel."
Growling, he continues his attack; licking, sucking, fucking you with his tongue until you're a shaking, sobbing mess, begging him for release. And still, he denies you. Keeps you teetering on the edge, right there, right thereâand then pulls back.
"Please!" you cry out. "Please, Kolf, I can'tâ"
"You can." He kisses his way back up your body, and you feel his cock leaking against your thigh. "You can take more. I know you can, sweetheart."
He reaches down, guides himself to your entrance, and you feel the head of him nudging at your folds.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yes. Yes."
A little roll of his hips and he pushes inside you.
Just the head at first and you gasp at the stretch. He's so big. Bigger than anything you've ever taken.
"Breathe," he murmurs, kissing your forehead. "Breathe, sweetheart. I've got you."
You force yourself to relax, to welcome him, and he sinks deeper. An inch. Two. Three. Your body yields to him, inch by agonizing inch. It takes forever but at some point, he's finally seated to the hilt.
"Fuck," he groans, and his forehead drops to yours. "So tight. So perfect. Squeezing me like you never want me to leave."
You can't speak. Can't think. The fullness of him, the way he stretches you, the way your body clenches around him have completely taken over.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay."
He laughs softly and begins to move.
His thrusts are slow at first. Each one presses a sweet spot deep inside you, making stars burst behind your eyes. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist.
"Look at me," he rasps.
You open your eyes, and he's watching you. Watching the way your face contorts with pleasure, the way your lips part, the way your body responds to his.
"I want to remember this," he says. "Want to remember the way you look when I'm moving inside you."
"Kolfâ"
"Mine." He thrusts deeper, and you cry out. "Say it."
"Yours."
Another deep stroke. "Mine."
"Yours, I'm yoursâ"
He speeds up, and the bed creaks beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall. His hips piston against yours, and you feel everythingâthe drag of his cock, the slap of his balls against your ass, the way his breathing turns uneven and desperate.
"Going to fuck you so hard," he growls, "you feel me for days. Going to bruise that pretty little cunt. Make you remember who you belong to."
"Yesâ"
"Sweetheart." He shifts his angle, and you mewl. "That's it. That's the spot. There."
He pounds into you and you feel your orgasm buildingânot the teasing edges he gave you before, but something enormous. Something that is about to explode.
"Come for me," he commands. "Come on your orc's cock, sweetheart. Now."
You break. Your walls clamp down on him, pulsing, milking, and you sob his name as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you. He doesn't stop. Keeps fucking you through it, keeps driving into you, and the sensation triggers little climaxes.
"One more," he says. "Give me one more."
"I can'tâ"
"You can."
Reaching between your bodies, he finds your clit and circles it. Torments it. Another orgasm hits before the previous has even faded. Your whole body convulses, your vision whites out.
"That's it," he groans. "That's my girl. Fuckâ"
He buries himself to the hilt, and lets out a feral snarl. You feel him pulse inside you, endless ropes of his seed pouring into your pussy. He keeps thrusting through it, shallow now, drawing out every last drop, and you whimper at the overstimulation.
But he doesn't stop.
He can't.
"I'm not done with you," he drawls. "Not even close."
Pulling out slowly, he's rolling you onto your stomach, ignoring the streams of his seed trickling down your thighs. He lifts your hips and aligns himself at your entrance.
"Kolfâ"
"I said I was going to bruise you." He impales you and you moan into the pillow. "I meant it."
He fucks you again. And again. And again.
He fucks you on your stomach, on your side, with your legs wrapped around his neck and your ankles crossed behind his head. He fucks you against the headboard, against the wall, on the floor when the bed groans too loudly.
He fucks you until you lose count of your orgasms, until you're nothing but a trembling, sobbing, sated mess beneath him.
And when he finally spills inside you for the last time, when he collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest, you feel it.
That ache. Deep inside you. Where his cock has been pounding for hours.
Your cervix is bruised.
And you can't stop smiling.
********
The Morning After...
Sunlight streams through the cracks in your curtains, and you wake to warmth.
Kolf is asleep behind you, one arm thrown over your waist, his face buried in your hair. He's spooning you, his breathing slow and even, his chest rising and falling against your back.
You try to move.
Ow.
Everything hurts. Your thighs are sore. Your breasts are tender. And between your legs... gods, there's an ache that goes deep. Your cervix feels bruised. And you've never been happier.
"Morning," he mumbles against your neck.
"You're awake."
"Wasn't sleeping." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Was enjoying you."
"You're creepy."
"You enjoy it."
You elbow him gently, and he laughs, a sound that vibrates through your entire body.
"How do you feel, sweetheart?" he asks, sitting up to look at you.
"Sore."
"Good sore or bad sore?".
"Good sore," you admit. "Really good sore."
"Good." He kisses your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "That's what I wanted."
You turn in his arms to face him. "You wanted to bruise me."
"I wanted you to remember me." His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, and you gasp when his fingers find your swollen, sensitive pussy. "Every time you walked today. Every time you sat down. Every time you moved."
"You're insufferable."
"You're mine," he says with a smile. His smile is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
You pout. "You say it it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the sun rising. Like the tide coming in."
He grins. "It is. You're mine and I'm yours."
"Yeah," you whisper. "I'm yours."
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And because I am in love with them, give me a few days and I will write a short, fluffy epilogue, too!

















