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kirishimasensei · 4 months ago

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Long Lost Century

Kinktober Masterlist | 🔊Long Lost Century

Cockwarming | Elf ::: Todoroki Shouto

elf: an immortal being of folktales, often having great power and grace

pairing ::: Todoroki Shouto x F!reader

word count ::: 9.2k+

tags ::: sexual content | dubious consent -> consent | cockwarming | power dynamics | mentions of blood

✩ all characters depicted are adults ✩

In the time of the Great Elf Wars, there were two great elf kingdoms - and thus, two great elf kings. Bound in endless enmity, their legacies and their lands bled together in ceaseless conquest, borders redrawn with fire and frost. Dwarves, ogres, humans - all swept up in the tide, their fates bending beneath the weight of an immortal war.

And now, one of those kings stands before you.

Todoroki Shouto - his name is a legend sharpened to a blade’s edge, a song sung in reverence and fear.

The great hall of the conquered kingdom looms around him, its grandeur dimmed but not yet broken. High above, chandeliers smothered in wax and dust tremble in the winter-draft, their flames guttering in defiance. The stone pillars remain unyielding, but the banners - once proud, once defiant - hang in surrender. The scent of charred wood lingers, faint beneath the iron tang of blood and the sharp, crisp bite of the frost creeping in through the shattered stained-glass windows.

He looks like he belongs here. Like he has always belonged here.

Moonlight spills in fractured beams across the marble floor, painting him in shifting silver, in light and shadow. He is something out of a dream - or a nightmare - woven from the night itself. His skin is luminous, an otherworldly pale. His hair, divided cleanly down the middle, is half white as snow, half red as blood. It falls straight and smooth, cascading down his back, catching the light in strands that shimmer like molten metal and frozen stars.

His coat is dark as midnight, navy brocade traced with silver thread, the intricate patterns curling like smoke. Buttons of polished steel glint coldly in the firelight, their gleam softened only by the shadows cast by the high collar that frames his throat. The fabric is heavy, regal in its weight, a mantle of the same draping over his shoulders.

Atop his head, his crown sits like a thing spun from the bones of winter itself - a circlet of silver and ice-crystal filigree that glisten in the dim torchlight. It is both brutal and beautiful, an artifact of old magic, something that seems less forged than grown. It catches the fire’s glow, refracting it in eerie glimmers, giving him the look of a specter wreathed in cold flame.

His jewelry is no less exquisite, yet none of it feels excessive - it is not ornamentation, but a testament to his power. A chain of woven silver rests against his throat, a single dark sapphire set into the center like a frozen star. His fingers bear rings of ancient elven make, slender bands chased with intricate runes, one holding a stone so pale it could be mistaken for a shard of ice.

There is no softness in him, no excess - only power refined into something terrible and captivating. He is a king, not of gold and feasts, but of conquest and ruin. Every inch of him is adorned with precision, with a majesty that is not ostentatious but undeniable.

A scar lays across his face like a cruel sigil, stretching from his hairline to the high curve of his cheekbone, raw and ridged where they say that dragon fire once seared his flesh. It does not mar him - it marks him. A story burned into his skin, a testament to his survival.

In the flickering torchlight, the scar seems almost alive, shifting in the glow, its edges catching in sharp relief against the smooth, unblemished skin surrounding it. Some say the wound still holds heat, that if you were to press your fingers to it, you would feel the embers of that fateful battle smoldering beneath. Others whisper that it aches when the wind howls, a reminder that even the mighty are not untouched by pain.

And yet, for all its brutality, the scar does nothing to lessen him. If anything, it makes him more - more formidable, more myth than man. A king who has walked through fire and come out the other side. A king who does not fear being burned.

You force yourself to breathe. To see beyond the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the way the firelight catches in the silver filigree of his crown. It is too easy to be ensnared by the sight of him, by the terrible, glacial beauty of a king carved from legend. But there is no room for awe. Not here. Not in the conquered hall of a fallen kingdom, where the air still hums with the ghosts of battle, where the scent of scorched oak and spiced resin lingers beneath the rich perfume of burning tallow.

You are not here to admire him. You are here to survive him.

The elf-woman who led you here bows low, voice laced with reverence as she announces, “I have brought the girl, as His Majesty requested.”

But you are not the girl. You are a sellsword, a blade-for-hire, a name whispered in taverns and war camps alike. Yet she does not speak it, and you do not offer it. Names, like lives, are fragile things in the presence of kings.

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken tension. He does not rise from his makeshift throne immediately, as if content to let the weight of his gaze alone hold you fast. It is only when he speaks that the stillness fractures, his words low and deliberate, like the first crack of ice beneath heavy boots.

“Word travels quickly through the camp,” the Elf King says, his tone calm yet carrying a weight that commands attention. “They say a mere human soldier nearly bested me. What do you make of that?”

A scoff escapes your lips, sharp and unrepentant. “Nearly bested you? I nearly cut your fucking head off.”

The boldness of your tongue surprises even you - a spark of reckless defiance flaring in the cold space between you. This man - no, this king - who stands before you, watches you with the patience of something old, something vast, something that has seen empires rise and fall with the turning of seasons. His gaze narrows - not in anger, but in something slower, something measured. Curiosity, perhaps.

And then he rises from his newly conquered throne.

The Elf King descends the steps with a languid grace, each footfall measured, each movement devoid of haste. His mantle shifts as he walks, navy brocade glinting silver where the torchlight catches on its embroidery. The air between you sharpens, thick with something unspoken as he stops before you, close enough that the chill of his presence brushes against your skin, close enough that the scent of him - cold steel and smoldering spice, something dark, something edged - fills your lungs.

“‘Almost,’” he murmurs, the word curling in the air like frost creeping over glass. “Almost this. Almost that.” His voice is soft, but within it is a weight, something dark and dangerous that hums in the marrow of your bones. His head tilts, eyes half-lidded, studying you like one might study a puzzle - one he has already solved. “But ‘almost’ --” his voice dips lower now, a thread of something razor-sharp woven through, “-- doesn’t make it so, does it?”

You meet his gaze without flinching, though the weight of it presses against your resolve, heavy as a blade laid flat against the throat. The iron shackles encircling your wrists clink as you shift, the cold bite of metal grounding you in the moment.

“If it did,” you say, voice steady, even as something in your pulse quickens, “I wouldn’t be standing here in chains.” A pause, a breath. And then, deliberately: “And you wouldn’t be there with your head still atop your shoulders.”

A ghost of a smile curves his lips, a flicker of something unreadable - amusement, perhaps, or something far more perilous. It lingers, and for the barest moment, you glimpse it - the roiling storm within him, the clash of opposing forces, fire and frost entwined in endless war. And yet, despite the weight of his gaze, despite the air between you taut as a drawn bowstring, you do not falter.

He looms above you like the promise of a coming storm, vast and unshaken, his presence a force unto itself. “I have a proposition for you,” he says. “Fight me. Before my court, beneath their gaze. If you win - if you cut my fucking head off - you may go free.”

The words land heavy, an unspoken gravity settling into your chest. A challenge draped in cruelty and pride, offered not as mercy, nor justice, but as a reckoning.

You see it for what it is.

Somewhere in the long stretch of his reign - an era not measured in years but in conquest and blood - he has never been touched. Not by blade, not by mortal hands. Only dragon fire, an ancient wrath that kissed his skin and left its mark, has ever laid claim to him. And yet you, a nameless sellsword, a woman of no kingdom and no claim, nearly carved a mortal truth into his immortal flesh.

A mistake. A fluke. It had to be.

And so he must prove it was.

You are not foolish enough to deny it. It was luck, a desperate strike born not of skill but survival. And yet here you stand, bound and defiant, the only one to have ever marred his legend.

He steps forward, slow, measured. The faintest frost spirals outward from where one foot meets stone, crystalline filigree spreading like veins of ice, while the air around the other wavers, thick with shimmering heat. He moves like a storm given shape, power crackling in the space between you, restrained but not absent.

His gaze does not waver, nor does yours. A contest of forces, neither willing to yield.

“Tell me,” he muses, as if indulging in idle conversation, as if he would ever otherwise speak to a woman like you, “was it desperation that drove you? Or arrogance?”

His eyes gleam, a glint of something unreadable beneath the dark fan of his lashes.

“I’ve seen many things,” he continues, as though your answer is of little consequence, “but never a mortal woman bold enough to try to strike me down.” A pause, the words curling like smoke. “I wonder… what should I make of you?”

Your chin lifts, defiance burning bright in the cage of your ribs. “I think you already have,” you say, your voice steady despite the cold bite of iron against your skin.

His lips quirk again - something that is not quite a smile, something sharp and fleeting. “Perhaps,” he murmurs.

And then, sharper now, a blade sliding from its sheath: “But I think you misunderstand.” He leans in, the space between you vanishing like a breath stolen by the wind. “This is no mercy, mortal. You will fight me not to entertain my court, but to prove a truth - either yours or mine.”

The Elf King’s gaze does not waver. His pride demands this confrontation, a reckoning that will restore the unshaken dominion of his legend. To prove that the breach in his mythos - the touch of steel against his flesh - was nothing more than a fleeting mistake, an anomaly in an otherwise unbroken reign.

But beneath the surface, beneath the smooth veneer of command, there is something deeper. More calculating. A test.

A puzzle whose pieces shift beneath your understanding, their edges unseen, their purpose known only to him. His expression is sculpted from ice and centuries of rule, inscrutable as the high spires of his kingdom. And yet, in the depths of those mismatched eyes, something flickers. A glint of curiosity, perhaps. Or something darker, something keen and cutting, the gleam of a blade held just out of sight.

A game, then.

Not a spectacle for his court, but something far more insidious. A challenge laid out not just before his people, but before himself. And you? You are not the player. You are merely the piece he has chosen to play. Your role in this is unclear, the endgame obscured - but one thing is certain. Whatever he seeks, he will find at your expense.

Your fingers tighten into fists in front of you. “And if you win?” you ask, your voice even despite the coiled unease in your chest.

“If I win,” he says, his tone as smooth as glass, as immovable as stone, “you will sit on my cock as I receive my tributes.”

The words are spoken with the same effortless authority that bends empires to his will, yet they strike harder than any weapon. It is not the crude suggestion that startles you. It is the man who says them. This Elf King - so poised, so composed, a being shaped by centuries of refinement - has spoken to you with an audacity that does not match the elegance of his bearing. It should feel improper. It should feel beneath him. But it does not.

Because he does not say it to shock. He does not say it to amuse. He says it because he intends it.

You straighten, swallowing the flicker of surprise before it can be seen. A sellsword has no use for shame, no patience for coyness. Still, you wonder - is this another piece of his game, another move designed to unnerve you?

Your chin lifts. “And if I choose not to fight at all?” The words are a challenge, knowing that this may well be your final act of defiance.

He does not hesitate. “Then you will grow accustomed to those chains,” he replies, calm and cold. Not a threat. A certainty.

You don’t doubt your skill. You have faced more men than you can count and sent them to their graves, your blade quick and sure, your instincts sharper. But this Elf King is not a man. He is something older, something greater. His power hums in the marrow of his bones, laced into every breath he exhales. Your first near-victory had been chance. A wild swing of fate. And lightning rarely strikes the same place twice.

Yet you meet his gaze, refusing to yield.

He stands poised above you, looking down the sharp line of his long, regal nose, waiting for your answer with an unshaken calm that borders on arrogance. He does not press. He does not demand. He only watches. Waiting for the moment you decide your own fate.

The weight of the room presses down on you, on your chains, on the unspoken choices laid bare before you.

“I’ll fight you,” you say. The words are quiet, but they are steady. Your eyes do not waver from his. “Elf King.”

His expression does not shift, but there is something in the way he holds himself - the faintest tilt of his head, the near-imperceptible ease in his shoulders - that speaks of satisfaction. A silent acknowledgment of the choice you’ve made.

He lifts a hand, a gesture as fluid as the movement of stars across the heavens, and the woman-elf at your side steps forward. The iron bites once more before it is gone, the shackles unfastened with a deft touch. They fall away with a heavy, metallic clatter, but the ghost of them lingers, the bruising weight of captivity pressed into your skin, into your bones.

Another elf approaches, their hands cradling something precious, something otherworldly. A sword. Unlike any you have ever seen, let alone held.

Its blade gleams with an ethereal sheen, silvered steel touched by something older than human hands. The craftsmanship is exquisite, almost delicate in its beauty - so fine it seems as though it would shatter under the weight of true battle. And yet, the moment your fingers curl around the hilt, you know the truth. The weight is perfect, balanced so precisely that it feels like an extension of your arm. This is no ornament. It is a weapon of elegance and destruction, an instrument of war honed over centuries. A blade designed to kill.

“Would you rather a human sword?” The king’s voice is smooth, edged with a note of challenge. “I have many.”

You tighten your grip, feeling the quiet pulse of the metal beneath your fingers, the silent promise of the strength it holds. “I can handle anything you give me,” you say, lifting the blade in answer.

His lips curve into a smirk, sharp and knowing. It is the kind of smile that says he’s already seen the outcome of this match, that he’s chisled its ending into unerodible stone.

The hush that follows is absolute. For a moment, the world itself seems to still.

The Elf King stands before you, his presence vast, unrelenting - a storm waiting to break. And you, a sellsword armed with nothing but grit and borrowed steel, prepare to step into his fire.

His mismatched gaze holds you in its depths, unreadable. “Are you ready?” he asks.

His voice is steady, quiet, yet there is something in it that makes the words feel inevitable rather than rhetorical. A question with only one possible answer.

You do not speak. You simply raise your blade.

Around you, the gathered court watches in silence, a sea of otherworldly faces. Waiting to see if the mortal woman can stand against their king. Waiting to see if the lightning will strike twice.

He makes the first move, swift and precise, and it’s all you can do to block the strike. The impact shudders through your bones, a cruel reminder of how different you are, how mortal. He moves with an ease that is beyond anything that you’ve ever seen, each strike not merely an attack but a lesson, a demonstration of centuries honed into motion.

When he moves, it is like the wind - impossible to grasp, slipping through your defenses before you even register the shift. His blade sings, the edge whispering against yours, a lethal, elegant thing that moves as though it is an extension of his very will. His footwork is soundless, a ghost across the stone, while yours is the frantic scramble of a fighter who has only ever known war as struggle.

Still, you fight. Because to fight is all you have ever known.

Every step he forces you to retreat, you wrench yourself forward, forcing the battle into a contest of defiance if not of strength. Desperation drives you, sharp and breathless, the sheer will to endure pushing you past the ache in your limbs, past the knowing weight of inevitability.

For a moment, you think you might hold your ground.

But inevitability does not wait.

His blade catches yours with a brutal twist, and the weapon is torn from your grasp, the clang of it hitting the stone echoing in the stillness. The sound of a fate sealed. Before you can react, before you can even think to recover, he moves - faster than thought, faster than instinct. A sweep of his leg, a sharp strike, and suddenly the world tips.

The stairs to the king’s throne rise up to meet you, unforgiving and cold. The impact rattles through you, the breath torn from your lungs in a single, stunned gasp.

Above you, the Elf King looms.

His blade is a sliver of moonlight, leveled at your throat, pressing just enough to remind you of how close death lingers. The tip bites against your skin, not deep, but deliberate - a promise made in steel.

Before, it was your blade that found its way to his throat. A single breath’s difference, a moment carved in chance, and you might have severed the legend at its root. The memory burns in you now, raw and taunting, because here you are - your back to the stone, your own throat bared beneath the bite of his sword. The reversal is as cruel as it is absolute.

“Will you yield?”

His voice is not callous. It is not triumphant. It is quiet, level, almost… patient. As if he is waiting for something more than just your surrender.

Your pride seethes, claws against the cage of your ribs. But his blade does not waver. A single thread of warmth trickles down your neck, a delicate line of red against your skin.

“Must I ask again?” His words are softer now, though they leave no room for refusal.

You meet his gaze, mismatched and unblinking. Around you, the court watches in silence, a sea of faceless eyes bearing witness to your ruin. Your fists clench, empty now, trembling - not with fear, but with the sheer, bitter weight of a fight that has been lost.

“I yield,” you bite out at last. The words taste of iron, of something sharp and unwilling, but they leave your lips nonetheless.

At once, the pressure at your throat eases. He steps back, lowering his blade, yet his gaze does not leave you. There is no gloating, no revelry in his victory - only the certainty of a thing that was always meant to be.

Then, without a second glance, he turns from you.

He strides back up the steps to his stolen throne, each movement effortless, unhurried. The battle was never a question in his mind; the outcome had been written long before the first blade was drawn. He hands his sword off to an awaiting guard, the polished steel glinting in the torchlight, then lowers himself onto the seat.

You remain where you are, sprawled on the cold floor. Your chest heaves as you catch your breath, the ache in your limbs a dull thrum beneath the sharper sting of humiliation. For a long moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you - him watching from above, you struggling below.

Propping yourself on your forearms, you shift, turning your face toward him. His eyes meet yours, calm and steady, unreadable. He does not speak, nor does he urge you to move. He simply watches, his patience a sharp contrast to the tension still knotting in your chest.

The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. Eventually, the weight of his gaze and your own pride push you to act. With a deep breath, you force yourself to rise. Your movements are slow, deliberate, as though reclaiming your footing is not just a physical act but a statement.

You walk up the steps and when you finally stand before him, your shoulders squared despite the lingering ache in your body, his expression remains unchanged. He does not gloat, does not mock your struggle. He only sits there, quiet and composed.

The silence between you thickens, heavy as fog, until the Elf King’s voice cuts through it. “Remove your clothes,” he says, his tone soft, unhurried, as though this were merely another command in a day filled with them.

You flinch inwardly, a flicker of heat blooming in your chest - shame, anger, or defiance, you can’t tell which. For a moment, your instincts urge you to argue, to fight, to claw back some scrap of dignity. But you don’t. You know better. To resist would be to prolong the inevitable, and in a battle already lost, what is the point of drawing it out?

Your hands move before your pride can scream louder, undoing the fastenings of your clothes. The fabric is stiff with dirt and blood, your fingers trembling faintly as you tug it loose. You do not look down, do not let your gaze falter. Instead, you keep your eyes fixed on him - this king who has bested you, who watches you now with that same unreadable expression.

Piece by piece, your leather armor falls away, then your tunic, until you are left bare. The cool air prickles against your skin, but you refuse to shiver. Instead, you stand tall, your back straight, your chin tilted just enough to keep from appearing cowed.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. His eyes sweep over you, slow and deliberate, but there is no mockery in his gaze. No hunger, either - only an unnerving stillness, like a predator considering its next move.

He stands, the air between you shifting as his full height casts a shadow over you. You’re close - closer than you’ve ever been to him - and every instinct in your body screams to step back, to create space between yourself and this Elf King who commands so much with so little. But you don’t move. You hold your ground, your feet planted firmly, though it takes all your resolve not to let the moment break you.

You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, his towering frame forcing you to look up. His eyes hold yours, an unspoken challenge gleaming in their depths. There’s no cruelty there, no malice - only the weight of his presence, sharp and unrelenting.

His hand rises, and instinctively, you flinch - a barely perceptible recoil, as though expecting the worst. But his touch surprises you. It is gentle, his fingertips brushing against your cheek as though testing the texture of your skin. The contrast is jarring, unsettling - the same hand that wields a blade with precision now tracing the curve of your face as if it were fragile.

His fingers trail down your cheek, a slow descent that leaves a ghostly warmth in their wake. You don’t dare move, your breath caught somewhere between defiance and surrender. His hand pauses at your lips, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth with a featherlight touch before his fingers press softly against them.

“Suck,” he says, the single word quiet but absolute, leaving no room for question.

The command sends a ripple of heat through you, sharp and unexpected, but your pride clamps down on any visible reaction. Slowly, you part your lips, keeping your eyes locked on his. His fingers slide past, warm and firm against your tongue, and though your movements are hesitant at first, you obey.

His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t flicker, as though this act is no different from any other order he might give. The intensity of it burns, but you refuse to look away, refuse to let your resolve falter, even as the weight of his authority presses down on you like an iron brand.

When he withdraws his fingers, they glisten, a faint sheen left behind by your obedience. He lowers his hand with the same unhurried precision, and before you can anticipate his intent, his dampened fingertips brush between your thighs.

Your breath catches. A sharp inhale dies in your throat, and your body stiffens on instinct. You mean to protest, to recoil, but no words form - only the stark realization that he is testing you, measuring your every reaction.

The touch is light, barely there, yet it lands heavier than any strike you’ve ever taken in battle. And for the first time since you were brought before him, you feel truly unmoored. Heat rises unbidden to your skin, a flush of indignation and something far more dangerous. His fingers press gently, sliding with practiced ease, the wetness from your own saliva smoothing his movements.

You hate how your body reacts, the slow, traitorous pull of heat answering his touch.

“Ah,” he murmurs, the sound low and thoughtful, as if studying the way a blade catches the light. “Even a warrior such as yourself yields to instinct, it seems.”

Shame sears through you, white-hot. You want to flinch away, to reclaim some measure of control, but you know better. You are stripped - of armor, of weapons, of dignity. There is nothing left to shield you.

His hand moves again, deliberate, unhurried, as though the pace of your humiliation is as important to him as the act itself.

His eyes remain on yours, unwavering, unrelenting. One burns like embers, the other chills like hoarfrost, and you cannot tell which unsettles you more. He is as still as carved stone, his expression unreadable. Your reactions seem to mean little to him - yet his control over them means everything.

Then, without warning, one finger presses forward, slipping inside with a wet glide.

Your breath stutters. The intrusion is slow, deliberate - less an act of force and more a quiet assertion of power. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t thrust; he simply pushes in deeper, letting your body take him, letting you feel every inch of the invasion.

A shiver rolls through you, but you swallow it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. And yet, he seems in no hurry to claim one. His finger moves inside you, curling just enough to make your stomach tighten, your thighs tremble. He is testing you. Studying you. Measuring your limits with the same ruthless precision he wields on the battlefield.

And all the while, his gaze never wavers, never breaks. As if daring you to see past the marble stillness of his face - to look deeper, to try and find whatever lies beneath.

But there is nothing there. Nothing but the Elf King’s steady, controlled breath. Nothing but the quiet, relentless motion of his hand.

Nothing but you, unraveling before him.

When he finally withdraws his hand, his fingers glisten still, and the sight knots your stomach with a shame you can barely suppress. He steps back, tilting his head slightly, observing you with the quiet detachment of an artisan admiring his work. His gaze flickers to his fingers, studying them as if contemplating something only he understands.

Then, with the same effortless grace that governs his every motion, he begins to loosen the laces of his pants. The fluidity of it draws your eye despite yourself, your breath catching in your throat. There is no hesitation, no faltering - only the movements of a man who has never once second-guessed his own power. Even this - something so human, so base - becomes elevated in his hands. No one should be this graceful while taking his cock out.

Thick, flushed, impossibly hard. The length of him stands proud, the head slick with evidence of his arousal, as if his body had decided before his expression ever betrayed it. He shows no sign of strain, no indication of hunger - but the proof is undeniable. Somewhere along the way, his body had responded.

Whether it was in the moment you came bound before him, in the quiet defiance of your gaze meeting his, or in the way your lips had parted around his fingers, you do not know. But the evidence is there, undeniable, glistening in the dim light like a secret he has not spoken aloud.

He lowers himself onto the throne, the act as seamless and inevitable as a god settling into his rightful place in the heavens. Then his hands find your hips - firm, unyielding, guiding you without force but with an authority that leaves no space for refusal. He turns you with ease, positioning you so your back is to him. The shift feels like the closing of a trap, yet you do not resist.

“Sit,” he commands.

Facing away from him, you can see them watching. The elves, their expressions unreadable, their gazes heavy as the reality of what you are about to do settles deep into your bones. The weight of it coils tight in your stomach, a breath catching in your throat as you brace yourself.

Your hands find the arms of his throne, fingers curling around the carved wood as if it might anchor you. His hands remain steady at your hips, a quiet but undeniable force guiding you. When you lower yourself, the head of his cock presses against you, a sharp intake of breath shuddering past your lips at the first stretch.

He fills you slowly, inch by inch, an intrusion that is almost too much. Your body resists at first, tightening around him, but he waits, unhurried, letting you take him at your own pace - though you can feel the restraint in his grip, the slight flex of his fingers against your skin. He is holding himself back, letting you adjust, and that knowledge only twists the tension inside you tighter.

The stretch is exquisite, burning and full, stealing the breath from your lungs as you sink lower. The feeling of him, thick and unyielding, spears through you, forcing you open, forcing you to take him deeper. A whimper - unbidden, humiliating - catches in your throat as he bottoms out, his cock seated fully inside you. He is so deep you can feel the pulse of him, a steady, inescapable thrum against your walls.

A shudder runs through you, your body betraying you in ways you cannot deny. The fullness is unbearable and yet, somehow, perfect, a sensation that leaves you dizzy, unmoored. Your fingers tighten against the throne, your breath uneven as you try to regain control of yourself. But there is no control to be had - not with him buried inside you, not with the heat of his breath against your shoulder, nor with the watchful eyes of his court reminding you that this moment does not belong to you alone.

Behind you, the Elf King is silent, but you feel the shift in him, the slightest change in his breathing, the taut stillness of a predator that has finally claimed its prize. He doesn’t thrust, doesn’t guide you beyond what he already has. He simply waits, his hands a steady weight on your hips, offering neither mercy nor indulgence. Then, his voice breaks the silence, smooth and effortless, carrying the weight of inevitability.

"Let them in."

The command ripples through the throne room like a stone dropped into still water. There is no hesitation. The elves move with swift obedience, opening the door to the entrance to allow the first of many to step forward.

The man who enters - some noble or merchant, you cannot tell which - pauses for the briefest moment. His eyes widen before he quickly schools his expression into one of forced indifference. Still, you saw it. That flicker of shock, the stiffening of his shoulders. He does not dare look at you directly, but you can feel his awareness pressing in like a second gaze.

You sit ramrod straight, your back taut against the Elf King’s chest, your thighs clenched closed, leaving no sign of what lies beneath. Nude but composed, you are perched on his lap as though you are merely resting there, as though nothing obscene lingers beneath the surface.

The man moves forward, presenting his tribute - a finely wrought blade, its hilt adorned with delicate filigree, the craftsmanship exquisite. One of the elves steps forward, taking it from his outstretched hands, inspecting it with a discerning eye before offering the faintest nod of approval.

The man lingers a beat too long, waiting for acknowledgment. But the Elf King does not move. He does not reach for the gift, does not offer thanks. He remains as he is - an unshaken force, a presence that demands reverence without the need for words.

The man swallows, a flicker of unease crossing his face, and then, with a stiff bow, he turns and leaves. Another enters through the door and approaches. Then another.

One by one, they come, each bearing their tribute, each carefully averting their gaze from the spectacle before them. And through it all, the Elf King does not move. He does not command you to shift, does not seek to claim you before his court of conquered men. He simply waits, breath steady, presence unrelenting, as if testing the boundaries of your endurance.

But, the Elf King must grow bored. You feel it in the way his hands begin to wander, gliding over your skin with idle curiosity, as though you are something to be examined, toyed with at his leisure. His fingers trace lazy paths along your ribs before moving higher, capturing your nipples between them. He rolls them, pinches just hard enough to send a sharp spark of sensation lancing through you. Your body responds before your mind can steel itself, warmth pooling low in your belly, breath hitching despite yourself.

And still, they come. Their voices steady, their expressions carefully blank. As if the weight of their new king’s indifference shields them from what they refuse to see. But then his hands slide lower, skimming your stomach before settling on your thighs. His grip firms. A silent command. And then - he parts them.

A gasp breaks the heavy hush of the chamber. A woman stands below, her tribute clutched tight in her hands, eyes widening as she takes in the sight before her.

You. Exposed. Open. The Elf King’s cock still buried inside you, the stretch of it unrelenting, undeniable.

He does not react to her shock, nor to the ripple of tension that follows. Instead, his fingers drift downward, trailing with purpose until they find the apex of your thighs. And then, with the same absentminded ease as one might pluck the strings of a lute, he begins to stroke.

The motion is maddeningly slow, a deliberate pressure against your clit, each pass of his fingers sending a fresh wave of heat through your veins. His touch is calculated, practiced. Not a caress, not an indulgence - just another way to remind you of your place.

The woman swallows hard and averts her eyes, hastily presenting her offering. If not for the way he played with your body, she might have convinced herself you weren’t even there.

His fingers are deft and merciless. Each stroke ignites a fresh spark of sensation, unraveling the last threads of resistance you might have clung to. Your body grows boneless, sinking into him, muscles loose and pliant under his touch. When your head tips back against his shoulder, he does not stop you. Does not acknowledge it at all - save for the way his fingers continue their slow, unhurried torment.

The woman leaves, her footsteps brisk, as if fleeing a scene she should never have witnessed. But he does not let you drift too far into the haze of her departure. Instead, his free hand slides beneath your knee, lifting your leg with ease, spreading you wider, baring you to the room. The shift sends him deeper, the stretch shifting, intensifying, and you whimper before you can stop yourself.

His grip tightens. A warning.

“Quiet,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and embers, curling hot against your ear. “Or you will stay impaled on my cock for the remainder of your pathetically brief existence.”

The words sink deep, threading through the fog of pleasure and powerlessness. And yet, they do not scare you. Not truly. Because even if he does not say it, even if his voice is nothing but cool command, you can feel it in the way he holds you, the way his chest presses firm against your back, the way his fingers never falter in their rhythm –

You are his.

The way all the other tributes are his. And in this moment, you are nothing else. Nothing but breath and heat, sensation and surrender, limp in his hold, brainless, thoughtless, carried wherever his will demands.

The doors part once more, and another figure strides in - this one with an air of self-importance so thick it nearly chokes the room. His chin is lifted, his steps measured, each one carrying the weight of someone who believes himself above those around him. His clothing is rich, finely woven, adorned with embellishments meant to speak of status. But none of it matters. Not here. Not before the Elf King.

He offers some haughty remark - something about the honor of standing in the presence of the great and terrible king, though his tone strains to mask his own arrogance. Still, he kneels. Still, he pays his tribute.

From the folds of his robe, he produces a necklace - jewel-encrusted, resplendent, catching the dim light in a way that makes it gleam like something plucked from the depths of the earth itself. Expensive. Stunning. A piece meant for royalty.

One of the elves steps forward, retrieves the offering, and carries it to the throne, presenting it to the Elf King. He lowers your thigh and removes his fingers from your clit. His touch retreating from your skin is immediate. Jarring. A terrible absence that leaves you feeling exposed in a way that his possession never had.

You almost shudder, almost reach for him, but before the yearning can take shape, before you can truly grasp how much you loathe the space he has put between you, he lifts the necklace, weighing it in his palm. Then, with the same grace with which he does all things, he brings it toward you.

Cool metal brushes against your sweat-dampened skin, the contrast sharp - silver and sapphires against grime and blood, wealth and refinement laid upon something battered and ruined. You have never touched something so beautiful. So costly.

And yet, as it settles against your collarbones, glinting in the firelight, with the Elf King’s cock still buried inside of you, with his hands slowly moving across your shoulders, down your arms - you feel powerful. There is no hesitation in the way he touches you, no rush. Only a languid, deliberate possession. His fingers trail lower, tracing the length of your forearms before reaching your hands.

He weaves his fingers into yours, a mockery of tenderness, then guides your hands to the arms of his throne, pressing them down. A silent command. A claim.

Your front is on full display - your breasts bared, the jeweled necklace gleaming at your collar like a mark of ownership. The weight of it feels different now, heavier, like chains made of precious metal and gemstones. Not shackles to bind, but ornaments to declare.

You hear a sharp breath - whether from the man before you or one of the elves at the edges of the room, you do not know. But you feel the shift in the air, the unspoken understanding that settles over all who bear witness.

You are not just taken.

You are presented.

Not like the man before you, who tries to wield influence with jewels and fine words. Not like those who kneel before this throne, hoping to win favor through gifts. But something deeper. Something more ancient. A power that comes from being chosen, adorned, claimed by the most formidable being you have ever laid eyes upon.

The Elf King leans forward, his chin hovering over your shoulder. Then he speaks, addressing the man who had brought forth the offering, his voice a quiet ripple through the charged air.

"How does it look?"

The man stiffens. His jaw twitches. For a moment, he does not answer. His tribute, meant to display his wealth, his status, now rests upon the bare, sweat-slicked body of the King’s whore, as if it were nothing more than a plaything to be used at his whim.

But he is no fool.

“It…” He swallows, forces the words out. “It suits her, my king.”

You can feel the elf king smile against your cheek.

The man barely conceals his displeasure as he bows and takes his leave, his stiff movements betraying his anger. The heavy doors groan as they shut behind him.

The Elf King exhales, a slow, measured sigh, as if this endless procession of tributes has begun to tire him. Reclining once again against the throne, he tilts his head slightly. “How many more?” he asks, his tone carrying the weight of boredom, of disinterest, as though he has already grown weary of their offerings.

“Many, Your Majesty,” an elf answers dutifully.

Another sigh, deeper this time, threaded with something unreadable. Then, with an idle wave of his hand, he speaks. “Dismiss them. You are all dismissed.”

The elf hesitates only for a fraction of a second before inclining his head. The command ripples through the chamber. Without protest, without question, the remaining elves move swiftly to obey, their footsteps whispering against the stone as they open the doors and usher the waiting petitioners away.

One by one, the chamber empties. The distant murmur of voices fades beyond the great doors, and the weight of many gazes lifts from your bare skin. And then, at last, the final elf bows and steps back. The chamber doors shut with a heavy finality, the murmur of voices fading as the last of them depart. Silence settles between you like the hush of an exhaled breath. The weight of it is thick, pressing.

You are alone with him now.

The Elf King does not move, does not speak. He simply breathes - deep, his chest rising and falling against your back. His hands remain upon you, fingers still entwined with yours, keeping you splayed out before him.

The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the stone. Your body is still trembling, muscles weak from being held open, displayed, claimed. And yet, even with the absence of an audience, he does not relinquish his hold.

Then, at last, he shifts. His grip on your hands loosens, though the warmth of his palms lingers like a brand. His fingers skim along your sides, slow, reverent, before settling at your hips once more. His mouth is close now, so close you can feel his breath ghost against your ear.

His voice rolls over you like distant thunder, a deep, weighted rumble that settles into your bones. "You’ve held up your side of the bargain."

Your eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling, the sound of him alone enough to send something shivering down your spine.

"You’re free to go."

And yet – he doesn’t move.

His cock remains seated deep inside you, thick and unyielding, a presence that refuses to be ignored. He does not thrust, does not retreat, does not command. He simply is, existing within you as though he has always belonged there, as though the very act of parting from you would be unnatural.

Your body is traitorous, frozen in place, trembling. You don’t move. You can’t. Weak, drained, stripped bare in more ways than one. The silence stretches between you, heavy, waiting. And then - soft, deliberate, edged in quiet amusement -

"Or maybe you enjoy sitting on my cock."

He huffs out a laugh. A taunt, but not cruel. A truth, but not one meant for the ears of his court. His mask is for them - the elves who kneel at his feet, the world that looks upon him and sees only ice and fire, steel and indifference.

But this? This moment, this flicker of something real -

This is just for you.

His lips press against your cheek, warm and impossibly soft, a stark contrast to the unyielding force he has been until now. There is no demand in the touch, no dominance - only the quiet, unexpected weight of it. His breath is warm against your skin, fanning over the damp heat that lingers there, and for a moment, everything stills.

It is not the hunger of a conqueror staking his claim, nor the cruel amusement of a king toying with his spoils. It is something gentler, something foreign, something dangerous in its tenderness.

The kiss is fleeting, no more than a brush of plush lips against your cheekbone, but it leaves something behind - a mark not seen, but felt. A moment that lingers, curls into your chest like smoke, refusing to dissipate.

"If you stay here any longer," he murmurs, his breath a ghost against your skin, "I’m going to fuck you.”

A moan spills from your lips, raw and unbidden, your cunt tightening around him at his words. The reaction is instant, instinctive - your body answering him before your mind can catch up.

"Yes, please," you sigh, the plea slipping free as your head tilts back against his shoulder, exposing the length of your throat to him in silent surrender.

He chuckles, the sound low and indulgent, a soft thing that brushes against the shell of your ear like the whisper of a promise. Then, his hands tighten around your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh with purpose.

Without warning, he thrusts up into you, a single, brutal movement that drives his cock deeper, knocking the breath from your lungs. The force of it sends a shudder through your body, your mouth parting in a soundless gasp as pleasure and shock coil together, sharp and dizzying.

His hands tighten on your hips, holding you firm as he presses another slow, deliberate thrust into you, savoring the way your body reacts - how you tremble, how you take him. His breath is warm against your ear when he speaks, his voice a low, molten thing that seeps into your bones.

"You've done well for yourself," he murmurs, his words unrushed, as if carving them into your very skin. "You fought well. You nearly took my fucking head off.” He sounds amused at that. “You stood before my court and did not break."

Another thrust, sharp and claiming, and your breath stutters, your nails digging into the arms of his throne. He tilts his head, lips grazing the curve of your jaw, the whisper of a kiss that shouldn’t feel as reverent as it does.

"And now look at you." His voice is thick with something unreadable, something dark and triumphant. "Now you're being fucked by the most powerful elf in the world."

A cry tears from your throat, echoing through the vast, empty hall. The sound of it is swallowed by the towering stone walls, lost in the flickering glow of the torches.

He moves you as though you are nothing, as though you weigh less than air. His hands tighten on your hips, guiding you down as he thrusts up, his cock spearing into you effortlessly. Every stroke finds the deepest part of you, rubbing against the most sensitive places with a knowing that seems almost cruel. He fills you perfectly, stretching you open around him, claiming every inch of space inside you as his own.

Heat coils low in your belly, winding tighter with each thrust, each dizzying surge of pleasure. Your breath stutters, every inhale a desperate, gasping thing, your body a trembling mess in his grasp. The slow, measured pace he began with is fraying at the edges, each movement growing more insistent, more relentless.

Behind you, his breathing shifts - no longer steady, no longer so composed. It comes heavier now, rougher, and you can feel it against your shoulder, the way his chest moves with it, how his control is beginning to wane. His fingers flex against your skin, his grip bruising now, like he’s holding himself back - like he’s teetering on the same edge you are.

You’re close. So close it’s unbearable. The pleasure mounts, dizzying and all-consuming, waves crashing one after another, leaving you raw, shivering, desperate.

"Let go," he commands, his voice a low, gravel-thick growl that drags down your spine. "Come for me. Come on my cock."

The words strike you as deeply as his thrusts, unraveling something knotted tight within you. You couldn’t resist even if you tried. The pleasure coils hot and sharp, a tension pulled taut inside you, straining past the point of return - until suddenly, it snaps.

A cry rips from your throat as your body shatters around him. The force of it is overwhelming, a wave crashing over you, drowning you in white-hot bliss. Every muscle locks tight, thighs trembling as the pleasure seizes you, bursts through you in violent, breathtaking surges. Your walls pulse around him, gripping his cock in rhythmic spasms, milking him as your release soaks his length, slick and wanting.

He groans, deep and reverberating against your back, his grip bruising now, fingers digging into your flesh as he thrusts through the aftershocks, dragging every last ounce of pleasure from you. Each stroke forces another desperate jolt through your oversensitive body, your breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.

"You feel it, don’t you?" he growls, his voice roughened by restraint, by the strain of his own impending release. "How perfectly you fit around me. How much you were made for this."

His thrusts don’t slow. He keeps fucking into you, rolling his hips in deep, like he wants to imprint himself into every part of you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the chamber, each movement sending another wave of shivering pleasure through your already ruined body.

And then - he moans. A low, guttural sound, one that rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your back. You feel the shift in him, the way his control is slipping, the way your body - writhing, pulsing, still clenching down around him - is dragging him to the same edge you just fell from.

"Please, please," you whimper, your voice breaking, raw with need. You don’t even know what you’re begging for - only that you want him, all of him. You want to feel him lose himself inside you, want to be the reason his control finally snaps. You want him to use you, to take what he needs, to spend himself deep within you, to mark you from the inside out.

His breath shudders behind you, rough and uneven, and then his grip tightens - fingertips digging so fiercely into the flesh of your hips that you know bruises will bloom there come morning. And then, with a low, guttural grunt, he breaks.

You feel it - the way his body seizes, the way his cock twitches, buried so deep inside you that there's no escape from the rush of heat as he spills into you. His release comes hot and thick, filling you in slow, pulsing waves, the warmth of it pooling deep inside you. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, his hips rolling up into you, unrelenting, each thrust pushing his release deeper, forcing you to take every last drop of him. His breath is ragged against your ear, his moans no longer quiet. He is lost to it, lost to you.

The force of him, the heat of him, the undeniable, possessive way he fills you - it’s too much. Your body clenches, another weak, broken moan slipping from your lips as your oversensitive walls flutter around him, milking him for everything he has to give.

His hands flex against your skin, holding you firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as he rides out the last waves of his pleasure, his body trembling slightly against yours. And when he finally stills, when the last of his shuddering breaths fade into something quieter, more composed - he does not pull away.

He stays seated inside you, keeping you filled, keeping you his.

The world outside this chamber - outside the heat of his body, the steady rise and fall of your chests in perfect tandem - ceases to exist. You are boneless against him, melted into the solid press of his form, your skin slick with sweat, your pulse still thrumming from exertion. His hands, once fierce and commanding, now trace slow, reverent paths over you - gliding over damp skin, smoothing over curves as if memorizing the shape of you, as if grounding himself in the aftermath.

The fire crackles in the hearth, its golden glow flickering over the carved stone walls, the fine pelts strewn across the floor. The scent of warmed leather, of embers and something unmistakably him, fills the air between you.

Then, finally, he speaks - his voice a quiet, velvety thing that settles into your bones.

“Whatever they were paying you,” he says, fingers ghosting over your collarbone, his touch deliberate, possessive, “I’ll give you tenfold.” A pause, heavy with meaning. “And you can keep the necklace.”

A slow, knowing smile curls at your lips. You tilt your head, just enough to catch the glint of his crown in the firelight, to see the quiet hunger still banked in his mismatched eyes.

"Your Majesty," you say, voice like silk and steel, "you've got yourself a deal."

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