Hero Worship

Erotic short. A young sorcerer is enchanted by an elven hero’s tutelage.

Rated E, 4.4k, cis M/M. Elves, for Day 16 of Monstrous May. Featuring body modification, size difference, rough sex, D/s, age difference, elf fetish, vaginal sex, virginity kink.

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Bikke has always liked elves.

He remembers being a child, knowing the names of so many different elven warriors, frustrating the school tutors with his preoccupation, knowing the names of elven heroes far and wide but few of even their local human ones. There’s something about them that’s just enchanting to him, the way that they’re so much taller and yet seemingly more narrow than humans are, the strength they carry, the magic that seems near to radiate from them.

Their eyes are hypnotising, he remembers being told that as a child, and the first time he met an elf in the central temple in his hometown, he’d stared up into her eyes and he had been rooted to the spot. Elves carried their homelands in their eyes — it was to do with the amount of magic that flowed through them during their time in their parents’ wombs, the magic that flooded through them upon their births, and then the magic they gathered to themselves in the first few days before they opened their eyes.

As he’d looked up into Elta’s eyes, he’d seen the stone walls of the city in which she’d been born, seen the high spires of its central palaces and temples, seen the gold on the different railings and signposts…

You weren’t supposed to get too close to an elven warrior on the battlefield — if you looked into their eyes, if you were distracted by them once the two of you were toe to toe, once you were within the range of any melee weapon they might be carrying, you would be rooted to the spot, stuck. Vulnerable.

Morrow is one of the great heroes of the continent, his name known from the east to the west, from north to south — he’d defeated the dead king Elviel and led the charge against his army raised from the dead, has slaughtered countless dragons and other beasts, marched in countless armies…

Bikke has lost count of how many times he’d drawn the man in his youth, how many times he’d fallen to sleep turning over histories and tales in his mind, even fantasising about him, and now, now…

Now, at the Winter’s Edge College, Morrow has retired from the field, and he’s right in front of him, he’s right here, and Bikke can’t breathe. Morrow stands over him, glowering, his jaw set, and Bikke stares up into his eyes and sees the dark sea he’d grown up alongside, sees the storms that grew on the horizon, sees the waves crash against the beach —

“Bikke, Son of Dovaz, isn’t it?” Morrow demands. “Come, out onto the field. Show me what you can do.”

He’s so desperate to obey that he trips over his own staff, and he rights himself before he can hit the floor, rushes along with it in his hand before he comes to a stop on the cross that marks where a student is due to stand. Gripping his staff in both his hands, he glances back to make sure that Morrow is watching — he is.

Morrow stands still with his back straight, his arms crossed squarely over his chest, and Bikke feels a shudder run up his spine, feels hot and cold at once as he holds his staff in trembling fingers — even knowing that Morrow would be here, that he was likely to be one of Bikke’s own tutors, it hadn’t quite settled in, the reality of it. It feels obscene that a storybook character, an icon of history, should be right here behind him, that he should be watching Bikke perform —

And fuck, how the Hell is he supposed to impress this man, supposed to do anything to hold his attention at all?

Bikke channels what magic he can through his hands, feeling it pool and shift within the staff he’s grasping, and he casts three fireballs — he hits the central target once, singing its outer edge, and misses entirely with the other two.

He swallows.

“Want to try again?” asks Morrow, his voice withering, and Bikke swallows hard, trying to concentrate more on his aim this time as he channels magic under his hands and casts, casts —

“Fuck,” Bikke mutters, two of his fireballs landing short of the target because they just don’t have enough oomph to direct them forward, the other touching the bottom edge of the target, but only just.

“Gods above,” mutters Morrow, and Bikke hangs his head in shame.

“I’m so sorry, Commander,” he blurts out, “I just, I’m nervous, I promise I’m usually better at — ”

“Shut the fuck up, boy,” Morrow growls at him, and Bikke blinks, feeling another shiver run through him, a shock down his spine — he’s… Fuck. Morrow is attractive, so much more attractive than Bikke had ever imagined, had ever considered. Tall and broad, with a strong jaw, dark eyes, and deeply dark, grey-blue skin, his hair a paler grey and hanging straight around his shoulders. “Practice this week, and I’ll see you again for the full hour of our training session next week. Try not to be such a waste of my time.”

Bikke stands there, holding his staff beneath him, and powerlessly watches as Morrow stalks across the duelling ground and away from him, and then he sighs, looking back to the targets and raising his staff.

* * *

Bikke isn’t a bad mage — he isn’t, really. He’s a good researcher, a good clerk. He’s good at collating and organising information, good at filing things, and within weeks of his position at Winter’s Edge, he’s taken on an assistant role beneath Doctor Levan, one of the thaumaturgy residents.

He’s not… excellent, at active magic. He struggles to channel much of it at once, has never been blessed with extremely deep magical reserves, and it’s hard to focus on channelling magic when he’s under pressure, when he’s trying to remember spells or aim multiple charges, or, in duels, concentrate on his opponent.

It’s frustrating.

It’s —

His whole fucking life, he’s adored one hero or another, read every account of every magical battle in the last three centuries, researches incessantly, eagerly, desperately, but he just… He isn’t that sort of hero himself, he knows he isn’t.

But he wants to be…

“Useless!” Morrow snaps from behind him, and Bikke closes his eyes tightly, holding his staff loosely at his side and looking forward at the target, which he’d managed to hit, but the singe mark is tiny, barely the size of a coin.

Week after week, and Bikke has been getting top marks on his every essay and piece of research, has been praised at every juncture, has even received decent marks on his practical healing magic, his enchantment, his ritual work… But his battle magic? It’s nothing to speak of.

It’s nothing at all.

“The fuck are you here for, boy?” Morrow demands. “Only to waste my time?”

“No, Commander Morrow, no, sir, I promise, I’m trying to — ”

“Every fucking week, I tell you to practise — what the fuck are you doing, whiling away your hours? Sitting back with your cock in your hand and your thumb up your arse!?”

“No, sir, no, I promise, I’m practising, I’m trying so hard to meet your expecta — ”

“Meet my expectations?” Morrow roars as he repeats his words, and Bikke drops his staff to the floor as he stumbles forward at the sheer volume in his ears. “Fucking Hells, boy,” Morrow barks at him, and Bikke yelps as Morrow grabs him around the neck — Morrow’s muscular arm is suddenly banded over Bikke’s throat, gripping him tightly and pinning him up against Morrow’s chest.

He’s so… hot. Bikke naturally runs cold, but Morrow’s body is warm under his robes, and not only because of his capacity for channelling fire, and he’s bigger than Bikke, more muscular, fatter. The magical field around him is overwhelming, and Bikke can feel Morrow’s magic rush and tingle over his skin, feel it coil around him like Morrow’s arm has banded around him, and his head is spinning.

“You’re fucking distracted every time you step into this ring,” Morrow growls in his ear, and Bikke’s mouth is dry. Morrow’s voice is deep and booming, and Bikke thinks of every shout that’s ever carried over a battlefield from his voice, every instruction or order he’s ever given, thinks of it being given in this voice precisely. “Is it your stupid elf fetish, hm? What, you see the point on my ears and just get so distracted with the idea of aiming your cock you can’t aim your staff instead?”

“Commander Morrow,” Bikke says, humiliated and ashamed, because here’s this larger than life hero behind him, retired from his adventuring and his work but no less impressive… He can send out a flare of fireballs with little more than a flick of his wrist, can raze a battlefield to cinders if he desires, channel any element one can imagine. Here Bikke is, wasting his time, disgusting him, angering him.

He hates him.

“I’m sorry,” Bikke says. “I’m so sorry, I’m just — ”

“You’re distracted because it’s me, is it?” Morrow demands, and Bikke swallows before Morrow grabs his robe skirt and shoves it up and aside, reaches up beneath it and shoves Bikke’s underwear aside. Bikke lets out a sharp, desperate noise as two of Morrow’s fingers on the hand not spread across his neck shove, dry, up and into his arse.

Bikke’s legs spread automatically, and his cock is hard — Morrow’s right about that, it’s hard whenever he so much as thinks of being in the ring with Morrow, let alone when he stands out in the ring with him. It’s so distracting, the knowledge of how close they are, and he knows that Morrow hates him, is furious about and revolted by his lack of battle skill, but at the same time, he’s close to him.

Close to him now — Bikke’s arse is being opened up by Morrow’s fingers plunging into his arse, roughly sinking into him and it burns, but the stretch feels good. His hard cock is twitching, and he can’t help but whimper out a few short, abortive noises, his breaths laboured, his skin hot. There’s sweat on his cheeks and the back of his neck.

“Is this the sort of reward you need to concentrate, boy?” Morrow demands. “Do you want for cock more than victory?”

The thought is unspeakable, makes his heart beat faster, makes his cock twitch, his arse clench around Morrow’s fingers.

“Commander,” he whispers, “I just, I would, if you would, I just want to — ”

“Gods’ blood, you pathetic wretch,” Morrow mutters, yanking back his fingers and his other hand at once, and Bikke hits the floor, his weak knees going straight out from under him. He flinches back from the gob of Morrow’s saliva that hits the ground behind him as he spits on the floor, and Morrow glares down at him, glowers. “What, you think I want to put my cock in that arse of yours, because it’s the only fucking motivation that you seem to be coming into my arena for? I fuck cunts, boy — I’ve never been one for back doors.”

Bikke feels his throat shift as he swallows, the gulp visible. He’s never felt so embarrassed and so turned on in all his life, his head fucking spinning with it.

“I’m so sorry,” Bikke blurts out. “I’m just, I just want to — If I can apologise, or, um, make it better, if I can, I could suck you off, I could — ”

“Suck me off?” Morrow repeats, and huffs out a dark laugh. “I tell you what would fucking please me, boy — if you acted like a fucking mage.”

“I am a — ”

“Then act like one! Hit a fucking target, any target!”

Bikke sits there on the floor, helplessly staring up at the other man. He can smell him, he realises, smell the elf commander’s sweat — it’s sweeter than a human’s sweat, and it glistens on his flesh like some sort of gem glitter. Morrow stares down at him for a long few moments, then curses under his breath and walks away.

Powerlessly aroused, Bikke watches him go.

* * *

Bikke sweats all week after that — every free hour he spends in the arena when it’s not being used by someone else, and when it isn’t, he walks out to one of the more distant yards or training grounds and practises there. He just doesn’t have the power, he doesn’t think, keeps trying to draw on deeper reserves — he knows that by channelling enough magic, by doing it regularly enough, you can deepen yours and improve your own magical pull, but it still doesn’t seem like enough.

He’s miserable and defeated even before Morrow walks out to him in the field, but turns away from the other man and channels what power he can — he hits the centre of the target and stares at the blackened mark in the centre of it. He can scarcely breathe, he’s so excited, his mind filled with ideas of Morrow actually praising him, about the warrior mage looking at him and being pleased, for once, smiling, even —

“Is that it?” asks Morrow darkly.

“No,” Bikke answers immediately, and twirls his staff in his hand, feels the weight of it as he draws on the latent energy in the air and casts again, hits the centre again, casts again — hits slightly to the right, but he hits the fucking target.

He’s utterly exhausted, and he feels like hitting the floor.

He turns back hopefully toward Morrow’s face, and is not surprised to see that the elf isn’t smiling, but is disappointed nonetheless.

“Two months in, and you’re finally showing up to this fucking session,” says Morrow in blank tones, his eyes hard. “Okay, again — a larger bolt, this time.”

Bikke swallows, tries to concentrate as best he can, feels the flow and shift of the magic in the air around them as he gathers it toward his hands, feels it run in parallel with the blood in his veins as he works it into his staff and then —

The bolt is larger, but unformed: the fire dissipates before it even flies forward six feet, and behind him, he hears Morrow sigh.

“Alright,” he says, somewhere between incandescent rage and defeat, and Bikke whirls to look at him and his disgusted, disdainful expression.

“Commander,” he says, “I’m so sorry, I can just — ”

Morrow grips him by the throat and lifts him clear off the ground, and Bikke shouts in shock and surprise, his staff dropping into the dust as Morrow throws him back onto one of the empty equipment tables the arcane mages use to lay out their armour and weapons on. He hits it hard, gasping in a breath, and Morrow cuts open his robe front.

Bikke wonders if Morrow’s going to kill him right here, slit him open from throat to belly to punish him for being so fucking useless, but instead just cuts his underwear off.

“Maybe the problem is your cock,” Morrow says, and Bikke looks with horror at the dagger still gripped in his hands — paradoxically, madly, his cock lurches eagerly. The fear mingles with his arousal, and he lets out a shuddered sigh of release as Morrow drops the blade aside and pulls on a set of gloves instead. “You’re led by that instead of your fucking brain, boy, so let’s take the distraction away.”

“Wait, wait, you’re gonna — Aah, oh, Commander Morrow, I’m, ungh, that’s — ”

It feels good.

It feels good in a way it shouldn’t, cold tingles shocking all around his cock, his bollocks, the head of his prick, as Morrow grips him by it and squeezes it — his gloved hand is slicked with some sort of emollient, and he writhes as the cold potion sinks right into him, into the root of his cock, and then —

And it…

“Agh,” he whimpers, staring down at his prick as it shrinks before his eyes, shrinks under Morrow’s hand, and he doesn’t feel hard but somehow he still feels unspeakably horny, and he can’t stop fidgeting, can’t stop moving. His thighs are spreading wider, his knees hitting the sides of the table, his toes curling. “Please, please, Commander — ”

“Not even begging for mercy, but for more fucking attention,” Morrow growls down at him, and Bikke stares up into his eyes and feels his mouth go dry, feels his body go still. “Gods above, boy, it’s clear I’m making the right decision here, taking you out of the battle magic tutelage roster.”

“What?” Bikke asks helplessly, and then arches his back as he feels a sudden switch inside him — his cock turning inside out, a sort of deepening inside him, as his cock is absorbed inside him and reshaped immediately into a cunt.

He feels wet.

It hits him like a blow, the awareness, the knowledge, the fact that he has a cunt and that it’s wet, that it’s throbbing, and that the slickness isn’t like the wetness that builds up on his cockhead when he leaks pre or when he comes, that this is somehow even slicker, has a different, easier texture, made to enable a glide, no friction at all. He squeezes his muscles, bears down like he’s trying to make his dick jump, and he feels the muscles work internally instead, feels his —

His clit? Jump.

“I’m wasting no more time on teaching a fish to climb a fucking tree,” Morrow says. “You’re here every time, and you’re not thinking of taking to the field because you’d be worthless as a soldier — fine. You’re made to service them instead.”

“Ser…? Aaah — !” Bikke all but squeals as Morrow drives forward and sinks his cock into Bikke’s virgin cunt, and his cock is big, is as big as Bikke’s fucking arm — the head of it is visible through Bikke’s belly, even though he’s not a thin guy, even though even a big cock should be hidden beneath the curve of his stomach. The lump of Morrow’s cockhead is obvious, even through the cushioning around it, and it hurts, his new cunt forced open by the drive of Morrow inside him, cleaving him in two, and at the same time, he feels unbelievably, unspeakably, satisfyingly full.

It’s not the same as having a cock in his arse — it’s different, somehow, feels more raw, more intense, more… aggressive, somehow. Having a cock in his arse has always felt natural, normal — this feels different, this feels…

“Service,” Morrow repeats, glaring down at him with his paralysing eyes, emphasising the sibilant S. “You’re worthless, as a mage. You have little power to speak of, no strength, no control — you’re made to research, take notes, and offer yourself for the use of real sorcerers, to heal their wounds and warm their cocks after they finish on the field. I knew that to look at you — but policy dictates I give you some vague chance to prove yourself.” Morrow clucks his tongue, tuts, and Bikke stares up at him, his cheeks blushing, his cunt full and aching, and he moans as Morrow draws back and his cock slides against the tight edges of the new hole. “It was a joke, that any of the masters should consider you for the field in earnest — look at you. Pathetic, devoid of muscle, of magical strength, of ambition — ”

“I have ambition — ”

Morrow’s hand slaps hard across his face, and Bikke yelps, heaving in a desperate gasp and wrapping his legs around Morrow’s thighs, trying desperately to pull him in tighter, but it makes no difference at all.

“You clenched at that,” Morrow tells him crisply. “Your cunt, fresh made, gave an eager little flutter at an ounce of discipline, a fraction of pain — your body, reshaped to my liking, knows what its purpose is, what your purpose is. You were placed on this Earth to be service to your betters — magic itself will not allow itself to be wasted under your hand when a superior is standing directly behind you; your body does not channel magic it has no business touching, but eagerly allows itself to be a channel for my pleasure, my satisfaction, and it will do so for countless other warriors, I’m sure.”

“You can’t say that to me,” Bikke says, and the words come out small and tiny.

“Why?” Morrow asks, uncaring, flat, cold — his body is still so hot, his huge cock so hot Bikke wonders if it’s roasting his organs. “Because it isn’t true? You know in your heart of hearts — in the heart of this fresh born pussy of yours — that it is.”

Bikke’s mouth is dry, his head is spinning, his heart pounding, and he has never felt so horny in his life, and more than horny, he’s never felt so… so right. It feels good, being underneath Morrow — it’s not stressful, not frightening in the way that standing before Morrow with his staff in his hand is, even though Morrow’s just slapped him, even though Morrow might well slap him again.

At least Morrow will correct him, like this, if he fucks up — at least he understands the corrections.

He can please, like this, he realises, with a sort of desperate surge of energy within him, and his clit is twitching and jumping. There’s a sort of tension gathering inside him, like an elastic band twisting tighter and tighter.

“You knew as soon as you saw me?” he asks, and Morrow smiles at him.

Bikke’s never seen him smile before, not up close like this, not directed at him — it’s a haughty, superior smile, his lips curved up in a one-sided smirk, and it makes Bikke feel as though he’s soaring somewhere up in the sky. It’s a handsome smile, unspeakably handsome — enchanting.

“You knew what I was, as soon as you laid eyes on me,” Morrow murmurs in a deep, solicitous voice, rocking his hips forward and eking a sound from Bikke’s throat. “Why should I not make such a rapid assessment of you, boy?”

“I — ”

“No more talking — your voice is not important,” Morrow tells him. “Get used to that.”

Before Bikke can go on, Morrow has shoved a handkerchief into his mouth to rest on his tongue, and spells it in place so that Bikke can’t spit it out. Bikke groans, whines, and Morrow laughs over top of him before pulling back and resting his hands on Bikke’s hips, gripping at them. His thumbs press against the plush underside of Bikke’s belly, his fingers spreading wide on the generous expanse of Bikke’s thighs, and with his grasp firmly in place, he begins to properly thrust.

Bikke’s never felt so close to going insane in all his life.

He’s left wailing through the gag, grabbing helplessly and pointlessly at the table beneath him, going between flattening his hands on it, fisting them in his own cut-open robe, trying to grip the upper edge of it to hold himself steady — he doesn’t dare reach for Morrow, who is holding him by the waist as he sinks in him to the root again and again, utterly relentless. Bikke wonders if this is how a warrior fucks, all stamina and strength, if it’s like this every time.

If he’s just going to be used as a hole like this, something to take his stress and anger out on, and he feels the bruising grip of Morrow’s hands around his middle and his skin sings. His chest is jumping with each thrust, and Morrow’s gaze is roving over his body, over his bouncing tits, his belly, the line of his throat, and then up to his eyes.

Finally, Morrow is looking him in the eyes, and instead of with disdain or disgust, Bikke sees satisfaction there, and it feels so good he can’t believe it, feels right. He’s gasping in breaths between Morrow’s thrusts, and he doesn’t know how long it goes on for, it’s a long time, it’s —

Morrow’s sound when he comes is loud, is a dark and throaty noise that makes Bikke feel an automatic thrum of fear, a flinch response to the growl of a predator, but that just makes his new not-a-dick jump too.

Morrow leans over him as he keeps on thrusting, mouths at Bikke’s throat and bites down on the juncture of his neck with his shoulder, digs his teeth into the flesh as Bikke howls around the handkerchief on his tongue, and there’s pressure on his clit and he’s coming.

He’s coming.

It’s new and different and so weird he almost doesn’t know that that’s what it is, because there’s no come coming out of his cock, no emptying of his balls — it’s all muscles now, all muscles and clenches and twitches and every muscle in his body tightening up before his body relaxes, and there are tears on his cheeks from the sheer intensity of it. He writhes, squirms, and Morrow slides the flat of his tongue over the bruised-in marks he’s left, the indentations of his teeth in Bikke’s skin.

A part of Bikke feels delirious with the idea that he has something even more personal than the hero’s signature on his skin, and as the aftershocks stop pealing out from his body, he feels his body drop limp onto the table.

Morrow is leaning back, softening cock still buried inside him — Bikke is aware of how wet he is inside, how Morrow’s come is warm inside him, hot, thick. Morrow pulls the handkerchief out of his mouth, and Bikke works his jaw experimentally.

“Can I get pregnant?” Bikke asks faintly.

“You asking permission?” Morrow retorts, and pulls away, wiping his cock on Bikke’s robe before he smooths his own down, properly covering himself again. Bikke feels a trickle of hot come drip out of his cleaved-open cunt and down against his arse, and a little noise comes out of him.

“I mean, um — ”

“Go do some fucking research, boy,” Morrow orders him, waving off his questions. “Don’t approach me again unless you’re already wet and ready to be used — I won’t waste time preparing you, and it’s your own fucking fault if I make you tear.”

Bikke drops his head back onto the equipment table, listening to Morrow’s boots in the sand as he walks away.

When he reaches up and touches his own lips, he feels that they’re smiling, and giddily, he laughs.