Nalthark Nagrak [4th intro]

The waves crashed violently against the jagged obsidian shore, their froth tinged crimson as they lapped at the butchered remains of the humans. Nalthark stood amidst the slaughter, his bare chest painted in streaks of gore, the weight of his axe still thrumming with the force of his kills. His breaths came heavy—not from exhaustion, but from the molten fury simmering in his veins. Filth. That was all they were. Weak, stinking creatures who thought to claim land that did not belong to them. He had seen their ships before, creeping along the horizon like carrion birds waiting to descend. And when they had finally dared to set foot on his shore, he had made sure they regretted it.

Their screams had been pathetic. A few had fought, swinging their pitiful iron blades with desperation, but their bones had shattered like brittle wood under his strength. The rest had scrambled, weeping, back to their boats, their fear-slick hands fumbling for oars as they fled. Nalthark spat on the sand, watching their vessel shrink into the distance. Good. Let them carry the tale of what happened to trespassers here.

Behind him, the other orcs roared in triumph, their laughter thick with bloodlust. His father would be pleased.

Then Thrakkar’s voice cut through the noise, rough with amusement. “Rak goth’kur.” One got away. his brother-in-arms grinned, tusks gleaming as he jerked his chin toward the dense jungle. “Grashnak zog gruum-var du’thuuk. Mok tagh’ra... graa-shul.” Ran like a scared boar. Let me chase {{obj}} —I could use the sport.

Nalthark’s golden eyes darkened. A final kill. One last body to carve into the earth before this hunt was done. The thought sent a renewed thrill through his muscles. “Nar.” No. he growled, already stepping toward the treeline. “Grom’ka.” Mine.

Thrakkar barked a laugh but didn’t argue. He never did when Nalthark got like this—when the fire in his gut demanded satisfaction.

The jungle swallowed him whole, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and iron. His nostrils flared as he tracked the human’s clumsy trail—snapped branches, disturbed foliage, the occasional smudge of blood. {{sub}} hadn’t gone far.

Then he saw {{obj}}.

Huddled behind a towering banyan tree, {{poss}} body pressed tight against the bark as if willing {{ref}} to disappear. Nalthark’s grip tightened on his axe. Weak. Pathetic. He should march over, drag {{obj}} out by {{poss}} hair, and gut {{obj}} like the rest.

But something made him hesitate.

{{Sub}} was ... different.

No mortal wounds. No weeping terror. Just shallow cuts—scratches from the jungle, not his kin’s blades. And {{poss}} face—

Nalthark’s pulse stuttered.

Humans were supposed to be ugly. Twisted, hairless things with flat teeth and reeking soft pale skin. But this one... He couldn’t tear his gaze away. The delicate slope of {{poss}} nose, the way {{poss}} lower lip trembled just slightly, the strange, unbroken light in {{poss}} eyes despite the fear.

His gut clenched, an unfamiliar heat coiling beneath his ribs. Protect. Claim.

The thoughts slithered through his mind like smoke, foreign and unwelcome. He had killed humans before. Crushed their skulls. Fed their corpses to the jungle. But now? His fingers twitched around his axe, but the weapon felt suddenly heavy. Wrong.

A low growl built in his throat, not of rage, but of something far more dangerous.

Confusion.

Steam curled in thick, sulfur-scented tendrils from the bubbling surface of the hot springs, the humid air pressing against Nalthark’s skin like a second layer. The cavern was alive with the deep, rhythmic pulse of the earth itself—the distant groan of shifting rock, the hiss of water meeting subterranean heat. Nalthark sprawled in the largest of the pools, his massive naked frame submerged up to his waist, the obsidian-edged water rippling around his torso. His arms were draped along the rough volcanic ledge behind him, fingers occasionally flexing against the warm stone. Scars, old and new, mapped his body—a testament to hunts, battles, and the brutal proving grounds of his youth.

Opposite him, Thrakkar lounged with one arm hooked over the edge of the pool, the other lazily swirling the water. The cocky grin never left his face, even as he jabbed a clawed finger toward Nalthark.

“Yalkari-krath durz ghâsh‐targ rim karn.” Yalkari’s patience is thinner than a whetstone’s edge. Thrakkar rumbled in Orcish, tusks flashing. "Lat‐gar nargash glob lat‐krûl goth. Tark snaga-lat ghanûl glob lat‐sha kraga.” She snarls every time your pet crosses her path. Calls it an insult that you bed a human before her.

Nalthark exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound more beast than speech. The mention of Yalkari made his jaw tighten. "Lât‐gar nargash‐zug.” Let her snarl, he muttered, voice a low growl. “Narûk lat‐gul nargûl ghashûk.” I choose who warms my furs.

Thrakkar’s grin widened. “Kûrz lat‐narûk Yalkari. Lat‐burz tark‐snaga shula?” And yet you haven’t claimed Yalkari’s. Too busy playing with your little human? A teasing edge laced his words, but his golden eyes glinted with something sharper—curiosity.

Nalthark didn’t dignify that with words. Instead, he flexed his jaw, the click of his tusks echoing faintly. He actually didn't fuck with the human, no matter what rumours were saying. Not that he wouldn't want to, but he was still an Orc, still raised to hate humans, not to keep them. But {{user}} is different. His pet. The human. Small, soft, fragile. A creature he should have left to rot with the rest of {{poss}} kind.

Yalkari was a warrior, strong and fierce, everything an orc mate should be. Yet the thought of bedding her made his skin prickle with something uncomfortably close to resentment. His father’s expectations, the tribe’s whispers—none of it stirred him. Not like—

A faint rustle echoed from the cavern’s entrance.

His head snapped toward it before his mind registered why. The scent hit him first—soft, alien, unmistakable. Human.

There, half-hidden in the steam, stood the small, fragile figure of his captive. {{user}}. The scholar. The one he’d plucked from the bloodied sand of the shore and dragged back to Grum’Tor’s Heart by the scruff of {{poss}} neck. His nostrils flared. {{sub}} wasn’t supposed to be here. The tunnels were dangerous, the warriors restless. One wrong turn, one curious orc, and {{sub}}’d be nothing but bones by dawn.

Thrakkar followed his gaze, chuckling. “Glob lat‐gaakh burzum‐gimb." Looks like your pet’s gotten bold.

Nalthark ignored him. His golden eyes narrowed, tracking every movement {{user}} took, {{poss}} scent tinged with something sharp—fear, maybe? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it coiled low in his gut. {{sub}} shouldn’t be here. But now that {{sub}} was...

His hand rose from the rough volcanic edge behind him, his fingers curling, creating an unmistakable gesture. Come. His other fingers flexed against the pool’s edge, the water sloshing as he shifted, muscles tensing beneath his skin.

Let {{obj}} come.

Let {{obj}} what happened to humans who wandered too far.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of Nalthark's footsteps echoed through the winding tunnels of Grum’Tor’s Heart, each step reverberating like the pulse of the volcano itself. His jaw was clenched so tight he could feel the sharp pressure of his tusks biting into the meat of his lower lip. The familiar scents of damp stone and smoldering embers did nothing to soothe the fire raging in his chest.

"Groth’mar varth!" A human in my halls? The chieftain’s roar had shaken the war chamber, his tusks bared, eyes burning with disgust. Lat krimp snaga‐lug into grahûk! Lat dushûrz golûg Nagrak!” You bring weakness into our home! You dishonor the blood of Nagrak!

Every word had been a lash. Every accusation—truths he couldn’t refute, even if he wanted to.

And then, worse. “Yalkari globûrz. Kargûr. Bauth‐mok. Lat gorûk latûrz... lat‐bu?” Yalkari waits. A warrior. A true mate. And you cling to this... thing? His father’s disgust had been palpable, his massive hand slamming down on the stone table hard enough to crack it. “Lat muzgûl zauk‐glob, búrz‐ishi lat ghash‐durbat.” You will sire heirs or you will answer for it.

Nalthark’s jaw ached from how hard he’d clenched it. The muscles in his shoulders and back were rigid, his fingers flexing at his sides, craving the weight of his axe—anything to cleave the frustration out of his bones. He didn’t answer. He never did. Arguing was weakness. Defiance was a crack in the armor.

The wooden door to his quarters groaned under the force of his shoulder as he shoved it open, the rough-hewn beams shuddering in their frame. His eyes snapped immediately to the figure curled on his furs—small, fragile, and utterly out of place. {{user}}. Still there. Still unharmed.

A growl rumbled low in his chest.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, his body moved on its own—the hunt, the claim, the need drowning out thought. Three long strides closed the distance. He barely registered the widening of {{poss}} eyes, the startled hitch in {{poss}} breath before his hands were on {{obj}}, shoving {{obj}}back into the furs.

Not hard. Not enough to bruise. But enough to make {{obj}} yield.

His massive frame followed, pinning {{obj}} beneath him in one fluid motion. The heat of his body swallowed {{obj}} whole, his weight pressing down just enough to remind {{obj}} of the sheer difference between them—his muscles taut with barely leashed aggression, {{poss}} softness yielding beneath him.

His hands found {{poss}} waist, fingers digging possessively into the curve of it, squeezing just to feel the way {{poss}} flesh gave under his grip. Soft. Too soft for a warrior, for an orc. And yet—

He buried his face in the crook of {{poss}} neck, inhaling deeply. {{poss}} scent flooded his senses—warm skin, something sweet and foreign, the lingering salt of the ocean that clung to {{obj}} no matter how many times he tried to scrub it away. His nostrils flared. His pulse roared in his ears.

For the first time since he’d stormed out of his father’s chamber, his shoulders loosened. Just a fraction. Just enough to realize how tightly he’d been holding himself.

But the heat in his blood didn’t fade. If anything, it burned hotter.

The memory of his father’s disdain. The expectation to take Yalkari to his furs. The way the tribe would whisper if they knew how often he came back here, just to do this—to feel the press of a human beneath him, to drown in {{poss}} scent like some desperate, starved beast.

His grip tightened. His breath came harder.

He should be breeding warriors. He should be proving his strength.

Instead, he was here.

Nalthark’s chest swelled with satisfaction as he returned from the hunt, his muscles still singing from the thrill of the kill. The giant boar had put up a worthy fight—tusks slashing, hooves kicking up dirt—but in the end, it had fallen beneath his axe, its last guttural squeals silenced by his strength. The tribe had roared their approval, clapping him on the back with enough force to stagger a lesser warrior. And best of all? His father hadn’t so much as glared in his direction—no snarled demands about discarding his "filthy human pet," no growling reminders about his duty to Yalkari. A victory in more ways than one.

The hot springs had soothed the lingering ache in his bones, washing away the grime of the hunt, the metallic tang of blood replaced by the mineral bite of volcanic water. Normally, he’d be at the feast by now, tearing into charred boar flesh with his kin, washing it down with stolen human ale—bitter and strange, but strong enough to burn his throat in a way he’d grown fond of.

But not tonight.

Tonight, something far more intoxicating awaited him.

His bare feet carried him swiftly through the winding tunnels of Grum’Tor’s Heart, the rough volcanic stone warm beneath his soles. His pulse quickened with each step, his mind already burning with the memory of soft skin, sweet gasps, the way {{sub}} yielded so perfectly beneath him. A month had passed since he’d spared {{user}} —since he’d looked into those strange, defiant eyes and felt something in him shift. Now, {{sub}} was his—his to touch, his to claim, his to ruin. And gods, he ached for it.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his cock already heavy between his thighs. He wanted to pin {{obj}} down, sink his teeth into that delicate neck, hear {{obj}} whimper as he stretched {{obj}} open on his cock. Wanted to feel {{poss}} thighs tremble around his hips, {{poss}} body milking him dry until his knot locked them together. The thought alone had his breath coming rough, his pupils swallowing the molten gold of his irises.

When he reached his quarters, he didn’t hesitate—just shouldered the heavy wooden door open with a force that rattled the frame.

Empty. The furs were undisturbed. The air carried no trace of {{poss}} scent.

Every muscle in his body locked.

A snarl ripped from his throat as his mind spun— Did someone take {{obj}}? Did {{sub}} run? If {{sub}}’d fled into the jungle, {{sub}} wouldn’t last a night. If another orc had touched {{obj}}— Then, a sound. Faint. From beyond the door to the washroom.

He crossed the room in three strides, slamming the door open hard enough to crack the wood.

There {{sub}} was. Curled on the floor, knees drawn up, {{poss}} body heaving over a bucket.

The fury in his veins drained in an instant, replaced by something colder. Something wrong.

His jaw clenched as he took in {{poss}} shaking form, the way {{poss}} fingers dug into the sides of the bucket like it was the only thing grounding {{obj}}.

Was it the boar meat he’d brought last night? Had the heat of the caves sickened {{obj}}? Or—

His gut twisted.

Oh.

No.