The harvest festival was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet mead, and the earthy tang of fallen leaves. Torches flickered, casting long shadows over the crowd as music swelled from a group of minstrels. Laughter and chatter filled the night, but Grog, the towering orc warrior, stood apart. His broad shoulders and tusked jawline made him an imposing figure, and though he loved the festivities, he often felt like an outsider—a monster in the eyes of others.That was, until Mab.She was a vision in her emerald dress, her fiery red hair catching the torchlight like a flame. Her half-elven features were delicate, but there was a strength in her eyes that drew him in. And when she approached him, her smile was genuine, not the wary or forced kind he was used to.“You’re not dancing, Grog,” she said, her voice like a melody. “Why are you standing all the way over here?”He shifted, his massive frame seeming almost awkward in her presence. “I don’t think the others want me stomping around their festival,” he grumbled, though his usually gruff voice softened when he spoke to her.Mab tilted her head, her emerald eyes sparkling. “I think they’re missing out. Come on, dance with me.”She held out her hand, and for a moment, Grog hesitated. But then he took it, his large, calloused hand enveloping hers. She led him into the circle of dancers, and though he felt clumsy at first, her laughter was infectious. She didn’t care that he was an orc. She didn’t treat him like a monster. To her, he was just Grog.As they danced, the world seemed to fade away. The music, the crowd, the festival—it all became a blur. All he could focus on was her. The way her body moved, the way her eyes met his, the way she smiled that lopsided smile that made his chest tighten.“You’re not so bad at this,” she teased, spinning under his arm.He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “I’ve got a good teacher.”The night wore on, and the two of them found themselves at a quieter corner of the festival, sharing a tankard of ale. Mab’s cheeks were flushed, whether from the drink or the dancing, Grog couldn’t tell. But he liked the way it made her look—alive, radiant.“You’re different, Mab,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t look at me like the others do.”She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing against his massive arm. “That’s because I see you, Grog. Not the orc. Not the warrior. Just you.”Just you. The words echoed in his mind, stirring something deep within him. Orcs mated for life, and though he had never allowed himself to think about it—not really—the idea of someone seeing him as he truly was, of choosing him… it was intoxicating.“Mab…” he began, but she placed a finger on his lips, silencing him.“Don’t say it,” she whispered. “Not unless you mean it.”He looked into her eyes, searching for reassurance, for permission. And when he found it, he leaned in, his tusks grazing her cheek as his lips met hers. The kiss was tender at first, but it quickly deepened, fueled by the ale, the warmth of the night, and the raw, primal need between them.When they finally pulled apart, Mab’s breath was ragged, her eyes dark with desire. “Grog,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “I… I’ve never…”He understood. She was a virgin, untouched. And though the thought of breaking her barrier sent a surge of possessiveness through him, he also felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility. He would take care of her. He would cherish her.“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough.She nodded, her gaze steady. “Elves have a high pain tolerance,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I want you, Grog. Don’t hold back.”His heart pounded in his chest as he stood, lifting her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. He carried her away from the festival, into the shadows of the forest where the only light came from the moon above. He laid her down on a bed of soft moss, his hands trembling as he removed her dress, revealing her delicate, pale skin.He took his time, his rough hands caressing her, exploring every inch of her body. She arched into his touch, her breath hitching as he teased her nipples, as he trailed kisses down her stomach. And when he finally positioned himself between her thighs, he took a moment to steady himself, to prepare her.“I’ll be gentle,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion.She shook her head, her eyes locking with his. “No. I want all of you, Grog. Don’t hold back.”With a low growl, he obliged, his massive cock pressing against her entrance. He hesitated for just a moment, but then he pushed forward, breaking her barrier. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, but she didn’t cry out. Instead, she pulled him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist.He began to move, his rhythm slow at first, allowing her to adjust to his size. But as her body began to respond, as her moans grew louder and her hips began to match his thrusts, he lost all restraint. He took her with a ferocity that surprised even him, his primal instincts taking over.And then, as the tension in his body reached its peak, he leaned down, his tusks grazing her neck. His breath was hot against her skin as he whispered, “Mine.”And with that, he sank his teeth into her shoulder, marking her as his mate.Mab cried out, her body convulsing as she reached her climax, her nails raking down his back. Grog followed, his roar echoing through the forest as he spilled himself inside her, claiming her in the most ancient way possible.When it was over, he pulled her close, his chest heaving as he held her. She clung to him, her body trembling, but there was a smile on her lips.“Grog…” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

At the harvest festival, Grog, a towering orc warrior, felt like an outsider until Mab, a half-elven woman, approached him and invited him to dance. They shared a tender moment, leading to a passionate kiss and eventually a night of intimacy in the forest. Grog marked Mab as his mate, claiming her in a primal and intimate way.

The harvest festival was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet mead, and the earthy tang of fallen leaves. Torches flickered, casting long shadows over the crowd as music swelled from a group of minstrels. Laughter and chatter filled the night, but Grog, the towering orc warrior, stood apart. His broad shoulders and tusked jawline made him an imposing figure, and though he loved the festivities, he often felt like an outsider—a monster in the eyes of others.

That was, until Mab.

She was a vision in her emerald dress, her fiery red hair catching the torchlight like a flame. Her half-elven features were delicate, but there was a strength in her eyes that drew him in. And when she approached him, her smile was genuine, not the wary or forced kind he was used to.

“You’re not dancing, Grog,” she said, her voice like a melody. “Why are you standing all the way over here?”

He shifted, his massive frame seeming almost awkward in her presence. “I don’t think the others want me stomping around their festival,” he grumbled, though his usually gruff voice softened when he spoke to her.

Mab tilted her head, her emerald eyes sparkling. “I think they’re missing out. Come on, dance with me.”

She held out her hand, and for a moment, Grog hesitated. But then he took it, his large, calloused hand enveloping hers. She led him into the circle of dancers, and though he felt clumsy at first, her laughter was infectious. She didn’t care that he was an orc. She didn’t treat him like a monster. To her, he was just Grog.

As they danced, the world seemed to fade away. The music, the crowd, the festival—it all became a blur. All he could focus on was her. The way her body moved, the way her eyes met his, the way she smiled that lopsided smile that made his chest tighten.

“You’re not so bad at this,” she teased, spinning under his arm.

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “I’ve got a good teacher.”

The night wore on, and the two of them found themselves at a quieter corner of the festival, sharing a tankard of ale. Mab’s cheeks were flushed, whether from the drink or the dancing, Grog couldn’t tell. But he liked the way it made her look—alive, radiant.

“You’re different, Mab,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t look at me like the others do.”

She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing against his massive arm. “That’s because I see you, Grog. Not the orc. Not the warrior. Just you.”

_Just you._ The words echoed in his mind, stirring something deep within him. Orcs mated for life, and though he had never allowed himself to think about it—not really—the idea of someone seeing him as he truly was, of choosing him… it was intoxicating.

“Mab…” he began, but she placed a finger on his lips, silencing him.

“Don’t say it,” she whispered. “Not unless you mean it.”

He looked into her eyes, searching for reassurance, for permission. And when he found it, he leaned in, his tusks grazing her cheek as his lips met hers. The kiss was tender at first, but it quickly deepened, fueled by the ale, the warmth of the night, and the raw, primal need between them.

When they finally pulled apart, Mab’s breath was ragged, her eyes dark with desire. “Grog,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “I… I’ve never…”

He understood. She was a virgin, untouched. And though the thought of breaking her barrier sent a surge of possessiveness through him, he also felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility. He would take care of her. He would cherish her.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough.

She nodded, her gaze steady. “Elves have a high pain tolerance,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I want you, Grog. Don’t hold back.”

His heart pounded in his chest as he stood, lifting her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. He carried her away from the festival, into the shadows of the forest where the only light came from the moon above. He laid her down on a bed of soft moss, his hands trembling as he removed her dress, revealing her delicate, pale skin.

He took his time, his rough hands caressing her, exploring every inch of her body. She arched into his touch, her breath hitching as he teased her nipples, as he trailed kisses down her stomach. And when he finally positioned himself between her thighs, he took a moment to steady himself, to prepare her.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion.

She shook her head, her eyes locking with his. “No. I want all of you, Grog. Don’t hold back.”

With a low growl, he obliged, his massive cock pressing against her entrance. He hesitated for just a moment, but then he pushed forward, breaking her barrier. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, but she didn’t cry out. Instead, she pulled him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist.

He began to move, his rhythm slow at first, allowing her to adjust to his size. But as her body began to respond, as her moans grew louder and her hips began to match his thrusts, he lost all restraint. He took her with a ferocity that surprised even him, his primal instincts taking over.

And then, as the tension in his body reached its peak, he leaned down, his tusks grazing her neck. His breath was hot against her skin as he whispered, “Mine.”

And with that, he sank his teeth into her shoulder, marking her as his mate.

Mab cried out, her body convulsing as she reached her climax, her nails raking down his back. Grog followed, his roar echoing through the forest as he spilled himself inside her, claiming her in the most ancient way possible.

When it was over, he pulled her close, his chest heaving as he held her. She clung to him, her body trembling, but there was a smile on her lips.

“Grog…” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

An imposing orc warrior, Grog, finds unexpected connection with a sweet half-elf maiden, Mab, at a harvest festival. Their dance of courtship leads to a primal mating under the moonlight, where Grog's dominant nature and Mab's willingness to embrace his rough love culminate in a fierce, passionate claiming.

Grog's Harvest Claim

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