Vidar bites his lip again. His hands clench on his shirt, clinging tightly to it. Nerves spark through him, his stomach swooping heavier. His legs tremble a little, and his pulse throbs. His breaths feel uneven, staggering in his chest, but he manages to continue on his way.

And then he breaks through the foliage, and finds his goal.

His eyes widen, wider and wider. He gasps, a sound he can’t hide in the silence. It’s a group of orcs, heavy and big and wide and just—so much larger than his elf-form. The biggest is easily twice as tall as him, and at least three times as wide.

He feels tiny.

(Fuck, it’s so good.)

Vidar shudders, wetting his lips and opening them. All that comes out is a weak croak, and he shrinks back in embarrassment. He doesn’t... really know if this will go the way he wants it to. There are safeguards in place to prevent it; many, many safeguards. He had to learn so much coding and programming hacking and whatnot to remove them, and he prays that he did it right.

Basically, he’s made himself fuckable. But only by NPCs—players won’t be able to tell anything is amiss. But for NPCs... well, anything goes.

He gulps. His eyes flit between the figures, counting them as he goes. Five, there are five of them. All of them are bigger than him. They’re dressed only in loincloths, arms decorated with armbands and beads. Their faces are like they were when he looked them up online, and he’s glad the information matches.

They have tusks, these orcs. Big white-yellow tucks, pointing up. The noses are wide and flat, the muscles bulging, the limbs thick. The skin are a gray-ish color, and they’ve all got tattoos on various body parts. There’s no body hair that he can see.

Vidar trembles, shakes, but he draws himself up anyway. He’s here for a reason, and he’s so close, and he’s not giving up now. Even if... even if there’s no predicting how the NPCs are going to react.

They’re frozen right now, just looking at him. But they begin to move not long after, life breathed back into them, some of them going back to their apparent chores. But. But two of them, the biggest of them all and a middle-sized one, approach him.

He gulps, again, mouth dry. His stomach is in knots, he’s painfully aware of his crotch, and the breathless feeling is back in full force.

His eyes swing between the two orcs, and as they get closer he reflexively steps back. They grunt something, the bigger one nodding to the smaller. The smaller one steps forward, closing in on him and Vidar’s back hits a tree with a soft thump. He whimpers, his wide eyes glancing around. It’s the nerves, he thinks. He doesn’t know what will happen. What if it didn’t work at all, and they just kill him? They could, and he would have no way to defend himself.

Or... or it could work, and he would still have no way to defend himself.

He ducks his head as he orc stops right before, gray stomach in front of his face. It bends its head to gaze at him, and he holds still, freezes. His stomach is so warm, so tightly wound, so, so—just so. He barely manages to hold in a whimper when the orc grabs his plait and pulls his head back, pulling and pulling and pulling until he’s looking up at the sky.

The orc bends closer, nosing at his throat, tusks grazing his skin and leaving red lines. Vidar feels lightheaded, the sun scorching his vision broken. His neck strains, his hands fisting in his sleeves, his toes curling.

His head is pulled further back, somehow, and he grimaces as his mouth pops open. His eyes blink up at the sky, vision crossed with blobs of white, and tears slowly pool at their corners. The orc grunts as it lifts its head from his neck, letting go of his hair and he barely has a second to breathe before there’s a rough hand around his throat, suddenly squeezing tight.

Strangling, Vidar’s hands scramble on the orc’s thick arm. He tries to wheeze, tries to say something, but nothing comes. He’s lifted, toes straining to touch the ground and then he can’t even do that.

Held up in the air, looking down at the orc with tears dripping over his cheeks and panic clawing in his chest, the lightheadedness is no longer just a feeling, but a fact. Darkness clouds his vision, and his HP is going down, and he kicks but it does nothing. Finally, he settles his feet on the orc’s chest and tries to push, tries to get leverage as he pries at the large fingers. (They’re so large he can’t look down, enveloping his neck so completely that there’s no room to move.)

And then the orc drops him. He lands harshly on the ground, fingers digging into the dirt and chest rattling as he breathes roughly. His head hangs, the plait slipping over his shoulder and he glances at it, comforted by the silver color.

His crotch is wet.

His hands tremble, and it’s not from fear. The pit in his stomach, the knot, the tightness; it’s all exactly what he’s been searching for him. He wheezes, and stays still as he waits for the orc’s next action.

A foot kicks him onto his back, and he flops bonelessly, staring up at the orc. It looms over him, says something that he can’t understand. There’s supposed to be a screen over the NPCs heads every time they speak, translating the sounds, but there’s nothing now. It wasn’t something he intended, and he wonder how it happened.

The orc grabs his plait again, and begins to drag him by it. Over the ground, to the other, bigger, orc. He shoves onto his knees as he’s dragged, the grip on his hair so painful it brings more tears to his eyes, and he tries his best to ease it. But the orc walks so quickly, he can’t get a good grip on the ground.

When he’s dropped again, he’s at the biggest orc’s feet. Vidar gulps, wheezes, breath hitching in his throat. His fingers pull on the grass, clenching tight in an attempt to stay focused.

The orc gazes down at him. He can’t read its look, can’t tell what it’s thinking. Hell, can it even think? It’s just an NPC.