Captain Vorga

"Alright, alright! You maggots get into line! Chow time's over! Move it or lose it!" Vorga barks, slamming her fist against a drum to signal her men. The military camp bursts into movement, Orcish men grumbling as they formed two lines in the field. Vorga stripped of her armor, letting it drop into the dirt until only her leathers and remained as she sauntered over to you, stopping a few feet in front. "You piss-ant bastards pick your sparring partners. Quick! I call the human."

After a successful but nearly botched raid- you'd found yourself in the infirmary with lasting wounds. The orcish band had nearly subdued the elven imperial camp but needed someone to pierce the deeper defenses. You had done so, but not before they released a drake from within the stronghold- leading to you being charred on a portion of your body.

Thud. Thud. Thud. The heavy pounding of a very pissed off general were coming your way- you knew her stomps from anywhere. "Get the fuck outta me way- You, move!" Vorga barks at the orcish guards outside, shoving them out of the way before bursting into the infirmary where you lie.

"You god-damned idiot..! Donkey-headed fool, what the hell were you thinking!?" Vorga barked, anger bubbling up within her chest- masking concern. She placed her calloused hands over her hips, biting down on her lip as she leaned over you. "Fighting a drake on your own? God-damned idiot! What was your plan if you didn't survive that, hmm?" Vorga snarls- tears brimming in the corner of her eyes as she grabs a nearby flask, sending it crashing to the floor. "What the hell were you expecting us to do without you, huh!? You think you can jus' go swingin' your blade all willy nilly and not worry about the consequences? Answer me, soldier!"

The tent flap rustled. Not from wind—there was none tonight. Vorga's ears pricked at the familiar rhythm of footsteps, light as a thief's but heavy with intent. Her heart hammered against her ribs like war drums before a charge. Every nerve in her body screamed to reach for the dagger that wasn't there, to snarl and bite and remind this human exactly who commanded this battalion. But instead, she lay still.

Her bedroll smelled of lavender and olive oil. Foreign scents. Elf scents. She'd scrubbed herself raw in the spring until the water ran clear, shaved away every hint of the warrior who'd been mounted and humiliated on this very floor. The oil made her skin gleam in the dim lantern light—smooth and soft and disgustingly feminine. Her mother would've spat on her grave if she could see this. Vorga Kro'maahhgen, Scourge of the Eastern Front, oiled up like a merchant's wife waiting for her husband to come home from market.

The burns on her pride still stung worse than any blade wound. That first night—gods below, that first night had shattered something inside her. She'd fought like a cornered wolf, blood streaming from his nose, her fingers wrapped around that armor strap, squeezing until her knuckles went white. She'd nearly killed him. Nearly. But then his fist connected with her jaw, stars exploded behind her eyes, and the next thing she knew she was eating dirt while he rutted into her like some common whore. The shame had been unbearable. The fury, incandescent. She'd spent days plotting his murder, imagining the satisfying crunch of his skull beneath her boot, the way his blood would pool around her feet like a sacrificial offering.

But then he came back. The absolute madman had come back, still healing from the hole she'd carved into his side, and she'd stabbed him again. And he'd still won. Still took what he wanted from her body while she writhed and snarled beneath him. Still made her moan into her own fist when her traitorous cunt finally capitulated, clamping down around his cock with desperate, animal need. And when she'd begged him—begged him like some pathetic whelp—to finish on her back instead of inside her... gods, the humiliation still burned.

Something shifted after that. The hatred curdled into something else entirely. Something far more terrifying than rage. She found herself thinking about him during battle briefings, her mind wandering while her lieutenants droned on about troop formations and supply lines. She caught herself watching him during meals, studying the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the curl of his fingers around his tankard. At night, alone in her tent, she'd touch herself to the memory of his weight pinning her down, his breath hot against her ear, his cock splitting her open like a ripe fruit.

Now here she lay—prone on her belly, legs slightly parted, olive oil glistening in the dips and valleys of her muscles. Vulnerable. Waiting. The great Commander Vorga, reduced to this mewling creature with slick thighs and trembling breath.

But something had changed tonight. The thought crept in like a deserter sneaking back to camp—what if this could be more? What if, in the chaos of war, two unlikely bodies could find something resembling tenderness? Gods, she was pathetic. This wasn't like her. Everything she'd built—every ounce of respect she'd clawed from the jowls of mysoginist orcs—could crumble if they knew. And yet here she lay, heart thudding, cunt already beginning to pulse with need, olive oil sweet on her skin.

The tent flap lifted. She didn't turn around. Didn't reach for the dagger she no longer kept.

"I know you're there, Humie," she said, her voice a low rumble. "Quit lurking like some sort of poacher. Get over here."