The Drunken Dragon Inn squatted on the edge of Eldridge Hollow like a weary beast, its timber walls scarred by years of brawls and revelry. Smoke from a dozen hearths curled up into the rafters, mingling with the sharp tang of spilled ale and the earthy musk of unwashed travelers. Flickering lantern light cast long shadows across the crowded common room, where a motley assembly of the realm's wanderers drowned their woes in frothy mugs. Elves with their haughty noses turned up at the swill, dwarves belting out bawdy songs in gravelly tones, goblins skulking in corners with sly grins and sticky fingers. And then there were the humans—Elaric among them—adrift in this chaotic tapestry, seeking solace in the bottom of a tankard.
Elaric Thorne was no stranger to such dives. At twenty-eight, with a lean build honed by years of caravan guarding and the occasional skirmish with bandits, he carried the weight of the world on shoulders broadened by hardship. His dark hair was tousled from the road, and a faint stubble shadowed his jaw, giving him a roguish air that women (and sometimes men) in border towns found intriguing. Tonight, though, he was nursing more than just ale; a recent ambush had left his company scattered, his pay chest emptied by opportunistic thieves, and his spirit as bruised as his ribs. The dwarven stout burned pleasantly down his throat, its malty warmth spreading through his veins like liquid courage. He sat at a scarred oak table near the hearth, staring into the fire's dance, the third tankard half-empty in his callused hand.
The door banged open with a gust of chill night air, and the room's din faltered for a heartbeat. In strode Grimga Blacktusk, an orc female who commanded attention without a word. She stood a towering six-foot-five, her frame a masterpiece of raw power—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, thighs like tree trunks wrapped in supple leather breeches, and arms corded with muscle from wielding axes that could cleave a man in two. Her skin was a deep, vibrant green, stretched taut over scars that told tales of battles won: a jagged line across her left cheek from a goblin's dagger, swirling tribal tattoos on her biceps inked with ochre and blood. Tusks curved from her lower lip, polished to a gleam, and her black hair fell in wild braids adorned with tiny bones and feathers, swaying like war banners as she moved. Her eyes, dark and fierce as a storm-swept sea, scanned the room with predatory intent. She wore a vest of hardened leather that strained against her ample bosom, the laces loose enough to hint at the curves beneath, and boots caked in mud from the wilds beyond the town.
The barkeep, a portly half-elf named Silas, froze mid-pour. "Grimga," he muttered, sliding a massive flagon of honeyed mead her way without being asked. "The usual. And try not to break anything tonight."
She snatched the flagon, her lips curling in a smirk that revealed the sharp edges of her tusks. "No promises, elf-ears. Last time was your boy's fault." Her voice was a low rumble, like thunder rolling over distant hills—gruff yet laced with a husky allure that made Elaric's ears perk up from across the room. She downed half the mead in one go, wiping her mouth with the back of a scarred hand, then turned to survey the crowd. Her gaze landed on Elaric, lingering on his slumped posture, the way his fingers drummed idly on his mug. He met her eyes, and something sparked—curiosity, challenge, the first flicker of heat.
Emboldened by the ale, Elaric raised his tankard in a mock toast. She arched a thick brow, then sauntered over, her boots thudding against the worn floorboards. The scent of her hit him first: wild earth, sweat from the road, and a faint, spicy undertone like crushed herbs underfoot. She loomed over his table, one hand on her hip, the other clutching the flagon.
"Human," she growled, the word dripping with amusement. "You got a name, or do I just call you 'staring fool'?" Her tusks glinted in the firelight, and up close, he could see the faint sheen of perspiration on her neck, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.
"Elaric," he replied, his voice steadier than he felt. The ale had loosened his tongue, and her presence stirred something primal in his gut. "And you're...?"
"Grimga. Of the Blacktusk clan." She slid onto the bench opposite him without invitation, the wood creaking under her weight. Her knee brushed his under the table, a deliberate press that sent a jolt through him. "What brings a soft-skin like you to this dung-hole? Looking for trouble?"
He chuckled, the sound rough from disuse. "Trouble found me first. Lost a caravan job to some highway rats. Now I'm just trying to forget." He signaled Silas for another round, adding a flagon for her. "What about you? Orcs don't usually grace places like this unless they're scouting for a fight or a fuck."
Her laugh boomed, deep and unrestrained, drawing glances from nearby tables. "Bold words for a man half my size. I'm passing through—raiding party's disbanded for winter. Figured I'd drink the nights away before heading back to the hills." She leaned in, her breath warm and mead-sweet against his face. "And who says I can't do both?"
The conversation flowed as freely as the drinks. Elaric found himself opening up, tales of narrow escapes tumbling out: the time he'd outrun a pack of wolves in the Frostwood, or the elf maiden who'd stolen his heart (and his gold) in Rivermoor. Grimga matched him story for story, her voice painting vivid pictures of orc camps under starry skies, brutal clashes with human knights, and the raw thrill of victory bonfires where warriors celebrated with mead and mates. Her hand found his arm midway through the second shared flagon, fingers tracing the faded scar from an old blade wound. His pulse quickened at the touch—rough, yet surprisingly gentle, her skin warmer than he'd imagined.
By the third round, the world had softened around the edges. Elaric's cheeks burned, his laughter coming easier, and Grimga's eyes had taken on a glazed, hungry gleam. She shifted closer, her thigh pressing firmly against his now, the heat of her body seeping through layers of cloth. "You talk a good game, Elaric," she murmured, her tusks grazing his earlobe as she leaned in to whisper. "But I bet you're all bark. Ever bedded an orc? We don't play gentle."
The words ignited something in him, the ale fueling a reckless fire. He turned his head, capturing her lips in a tentative kiss—or what he thought would be tentative. Grimga responded with ferocity, her mouth claiming his in a clash of tongues and teeth. Her tusks nicked his lower lip, drawing a sharp sting that only heightened the rush. She tasted of mead and smoke, her growl vibrating through his chest as her hand fisted in his shirt.
The room erupted in cheers from the rowdier patrons—dwarves hollering encouragement, a goblin catcalling—but Elaric barely noticed. He pulled her closer, his free hand sliding to the small of her back, feeling the powerful flex of muscle beneath. "Upstairs," he breathed against her mouth when they broke for air. "Now."
Grimga's grin was feral. She drained her flagon, slammed it down, and hauled him to his feet with one arm, as if he weighed nothing. They stumbled through the crowd, her laughter echoing as hands clapped their shoulders in good-natured ribbing. The stairs were a blur of creaking wood and tangled limbs, Elaric's hands roaming her sides, squeezing the firm swell of her hips while she pinned him against the wall halfway up for another bruising kiss.
Her room was at the end of the hall—a cramped space with a sagging bed, a rickety table, and a single candle sputtering on the sill. The door hadn't fully latched before Grimga shoved him inside, kicking it shut with her heel. She backed him against it, her body a wall of heat and strength, hands tearing at his tunic. "Clothes off, human," she commanded, her voice slurred but authoritative, eyes dark with lust. "I want to see what I'm working with."
Elaric's heart pounded, the alcohol making his movements clumsy but eager. He yanked his shirt over his head, revealing a chest dusted with dark hair and marked by old scars. Grimga hummed approval, her fingers tracing them as she unlaced her vest, letting it drop to the floor. Her breasts spilled free—heavy, full, with dark green nipples already hardened to peaks. She was magnificent, unashamed in her nudity as she kicked off her boots and shimmied out of her breeches, revealing a thatch of coarse black hair between thighs that could crush a man's skull.
He stared, mesmerized, until she grabbed his belt and pulled him forward. "Your turn." In moments, they were both bare, skin flushed in the candle's glow. Grimga pushed him toward the bed, her hands exploring him boldly—palming his hardening cock, stroking with a grip that was firm and knowing. Elaric groaned, his own hands cupping her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples until she arched into him with a hiss.
They tumbled onto the straw mattress in a heap, the frame groaning under their combined weight. Grimga straddled him first, her knees bracketing his hips, the slick heat of her core brushing his length. "Been too long since I had a decent fuck," she murmured, grinding down teasingly. "You ready for this, little man? I don't hold back."
"Fuck yes," Elaric rasped, his hands gripping her thighs, feeling the play of muscle as she positioned herself. She sank down slowly at first, enveloping him inch by inch in her tight, wet heat. He gasped at the sensation—velvet fire, gripping him like a vice forged in the forges of the gods. Grimga threw her head back, a guttural moan escaping her as she bottomed out, her tusks glinting in ecstasy.
She started riding him then, hard and relentless, her hips snapping with the rhythm of a warrior's charge. Elaric's hands roamed her body—squeezing her ass, tracing the scars on her back—while she braced her hands on his chest, nails digging in just enough to sting. The room filled with the sounds of their coupling: the wet slap of flesh, her deep grunts mingling with his moans, the bed's rhythmic creak threatening to splinter. Sweat beaded on her green skin, trickling down between her breasts, and he leaned up to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make her falter.
"Gods, yes—bite it," she demanded, grinding deeper. The alcohol amplified every thrust, every brush of skin, turning the world into a haze of sensation. Elaric bucked up to meet her, his cock throbbing inside her as she clenched around him. Her pace quickened, breasts bouncing with each descent, and he felt her building—muscles tensing, breaths coming in ragged bursts.
"Come for me," he urged, one hand slipping between them to circle her clit, rough and swollen. Grimga roared, her body seizing as orgasm crashed over her, walls pulsing around him in waves that milked him dry. He followed with a shout, spilling deep inside her, stars exploding behind his eyelids.
But they weren't done. Far from it. Grimga collapsed forward, her weight pinning him deliciously, but even as their breaths evened, she nipped at his neck. "Round two, human. I want more." Her hand slid down, stroking him back to hardness with expert twists—calluses adding friction that made him twitch.
Elaric laughed breathlessly, the mead still buzzing in his blood. "You're insatiable." He flipped them with surprising strength, rolling her onto her back. She spread her legs wide, pulling him between them, and he thrust in again, this time slower, savoring the slick glide. Face to face, he kissed her deeply, tongues dueling as he set a steady rhythm. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
"Faster," she growled against his lips, tusks scraping his chin. He obliged, pounding into her with building force, the bedframe banging against the wall. Grimga's hands clawed his back, leaving red trails that burned pleasurably, and she met every thrust with her own, hips rising like a battering ram. Sweat slicked their bodies, mingling scents of sex and mead filling the air. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her wild aroma, biting down on the corded muscle there until she yelped in pleasure.
She came again quickly this time, her cry muffled against his shoulder, body arching off the bed. Elaric held on, drawing it out until he couldn't, pulling out at the last second to spill across her stomach in hot ropes. She smeared it with her fingers, licking them clean with a wicked grin. "Tasty. But don't stop now."
No rest. Grimga pushed him onto his hands and knees, her strength reversing their positions effortlessly. She entered him from behind—no, wait, he was the one thrusting back into her as she knelt behind, guiding him. No, she mounted him from the rear, her breasts pressing against his back as she reached around to stroke him in time with her grinding. "Like this," she purred, her free hand fisting his hair to pull his head back for a sloppy kiss over his shoulder.
Elaric braced against the headboard, pushing back into her with fervor. The angle hit new depths, her ass slapping against his hips, and she reached between her legs to tease herself while he fucked her. The sounds were obscene—wet smacks, her moans growing louder, more animalistic. "Harder, damn you—make me feel it!" He slammed in, the alcohol erasing any fatigue, his balls tightening as she clenched around him.
Her third orgasm ripped through her like a storm, soaking them both as she trembled. Elaric pulled her hand away, replacing it with his own, rubbing her clit furiously until she bucked wildly. He came inside her this time, the release so intense it left him shaking.
They collapsed side by side, but Grimga's hand was already wandering, fingers dipping into the mess between her thighs before trailing up to circle her nipples. "One more," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Fuck me on the table."
Elaric groaned, but his body responded, cock stirring anew under her touch. They staggered to the table, mead flagon knocked askew as she bent over it, ass presented like an offering. He entered her standing, hands gripping her hips, the wood digging into her palms as she braced. This round was frantic, drunken—thrusts erratic but deep, her tusks biting her lip to stifle cries. He reached around to fondle her breasts, pinching nipples until she pushed back harder.
The table rocked, candle flickering wildly. Grimga's fourth climax built slow, then exploded, her roar shaking the walls. Elaric followed, buried to the hilt, vision blurring.
Exhausted, they slid to the floor, bodies entwined in a sweaty, satisfied heap. Grimga chuckled, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "You're full of surprises, human. Dawn's close—stay?"
Elaric nodded, pulling her close. "Only if we wake up for round six."
As first light filtered in, the inn stirred below. But in that room, the flames of their night lingered, promising embers that could reignite at any moment.
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A/N: Let me know if you want a part two or spinoffs with these characters!