Skyrim Elf supremacy

Nordic customs always perturb Niraath; ever since she was revealed as the Dragonborn her Altmer confusion was palpable as the sons and daughters of Skyrim consistently pledged themselves to her in elaborate garbs, songs and feasts. Her childhood rooted in High Elven society only alienated her further from the way the Nords prostrated themselves before her as thanks for her service to Tamriel.

She appreciates the gestures, but never understands why they are so… proud.

Which is ironic, considering her heritage and the deep hatred some Nords of Skyrim hold for the Thalmor. Niraath had distanced herself from the abhorrent actions of her kin as much as possible. It did nothing to halt the rumours that she was an agent for their deeds, particularly when Elenwen hosted that gods-forsaken "party" she was forced to attend. If that wasn't enough of an insult, the actions of Arcano at the College of Winterhold furthermore cemented some citizen's intense hatred of her.

The one Nordic custom not lost on her was the war axe.

Jenassa stops behind her, eyes immediately flicking to the warrior's broad shoulders to gauge her reaction. They were tight. Before them, in their Solitude home, was an axe laying on the entrance hall table. A shaft of light fell from the skylight above to illuminate the small one-handed weapon in a cold glow. In any other circumstance this would be ignored, but the two Elves know better than to simply ignore the message it sends.

Niraath lets out a hiss of air, stalking towards it and picking it up in a calloused hand. Polished and shining, the axe winks at her in the light.

It's Stormcloak's.

Pick your side, Dragonborn, it whispers in his voice. Do you march with the free children of Skyrim, or against them?

Her wife and travelling companion stands beside her. "What will you do?" Jenassa asks quietly, red eyes watching the stone-faced Altmer.

"If he wants to send a message, he should have done it in person," Niraath snarls, golden knuckles turning white on the leather-wrapped handle.

-

Many don't take notice of the tall, broad-shouldered cloaked traveller walking through the cobbled streets of Windhelm. The dusk sky is clear and cold, glass-like in nature, which sends many residents home earlier than normal. Winter is oncoming, and the inhabitants of the city know better than to stay out past sunset, lest they catch a cold or frostbite.

The people don't notice her, but the guards do. Her strides are long as she eyes them. They simply watch her pass from behind their helmets. She presumes the main hall of the palace is being emptied as she walks, closer and closer to the inevitable confrontation with the Bear.

As she reaches the doors to the Palace of Kings, she notices one guard, smaller in stature, standing beside the left set. She strides up to him, and beneath her black hood snarls: "If anyone interrupts us, I promise I will personally slit your throat."

The guard baulks, but gives a small nod. Much the same had been said by Galmar Stone-Fist only moments before.

She shoves the door open, the air coming from the stone hall colder than the air outside. The guard gives a small gulp.

-

The doors slam open, the loud CLANG reverberating through the empty hall, echoing off the cold stone. The doors rattle in their hinges as they slam shut with the force of the Dragonborn's entrance.

She rips the black cloak's hood from her head, features a mask of anger fierce enough to make a weaker man run in fear. Her free hand grips the axe from her side, holding it up to the man lounged on his throne in his usual attire. While she is clad in light armour from the Thieves Guild, her footfalls echo as if she wears the heavy steel boots he adorns.

"Imagine my surprise," she proclaims, voice unwavering and venomous, "as I enter my home from a Dwemer ruin to find this insult laying on my entrance hall table. Imagine my anger ," she snarls, punctuating the word as she embeds the axe in the wooden dining table with a THUNK , "when I realise that the honourable and mighty Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, the BEAR of EASTMARCH , has not even requested an audience with me to discuss my position in this war!"

She stands before him now, the golden skin of her angered expression bathed in orange. He glances to the axe in the table, then slowly moves his ice-blue eyes back up to meet her orange ones that burn with a flame, a like of which he's rarely seen in any man.

"That certainly is one way to answer my message," he drawls, hardly intimidated by her display of strength. The warrior bristles in anger; a smirk appears on his lips.

"Then let me make this clear, Jarl ," she snarls, climbing the stairs until she has pushed the man against the backing of the throne. Her roughened hands come to grip the stone armrests, her face close enough for the Nord to feel her breath as she speaks, white strands of shoulder-length hair creating a curtain. "Your soldiers have slandered me, mocked me and fought me, believing lies that I would ever, ever , sit with those Thalmor scum . You encourage it. I am so very, very honoured that you have requested I fight alongside you, but I must refuse."

Her voice lowers to a hiss as her eyes blaze in finality. The two stare at each other, hardly moving or breathing, one waiting for the other to speak.

Stormcloak breaks the silence. "That is to be expected, I suppose. You Altmer always prefer order and control compared to freedom."

The tone on 'Altmer' is not lost on the Dragonborn, her eyes narrowing considerably. The man below her continues, speaking slowly: "Besides, I'm sure that Dunmer wench you travel with has more than enough say in your decision."

Her teeth bare in a snarl as she feels her heart thump painfully at his words. To go so far as to insult Jenassa, one of the only beings to have shown her true kindness since her arrival in Skyrim… that is inexcusable, with the prejudice against her race the salt in the wound. She knows he is toying with her, trying to goad her into a rash decision, but she cannot help her stubborn pride from flaring and making her see red.

" You leave my wife out of this ," she says, low and tenfold more dangerous than the snarl and bared teeth. Stormcloak grins lazily now, a slow blink breaking his gaze.

"How insulting that you should be both an Elf and a woman. One who does not even share her bed with a man. You may have saved Tamriel from the World-Eater, Dragonborn, but you will never be the hero the legends tell tales of."

The straw in her back breaks. The warrior's pride has been wounded, and she finally stands straight, oddly calm in her movements as she backs away to stop below the dias of the throne.

"How insulting that a false king should die in his own halls," she murmurs.

Her shoulders raise as she sucks in a breath.

Stormcloak smiles. He's been waiting for this.

Before she can Shout, before she can cast any spell or unsheath a bound weapon, Stormcloak rises from his throne in the blink of an eye and Shouts her into the dining table.

She cries in pain as the heavy wood slams into her lower back, the force of the Shout tumbling her across the surface of the table. Cutlery, crockery and candlesticks clamour to the stone floor as the warrior moans, eyes blurry and her cheek against the cool wood. The axe is before her, mocking her with its silent gaze. 

She forgot he could Shout. Gods, how can she have forgotten he could Shout?

His armoured boots thump towards her prone form. Hair obscures her vision as she pushes herself upwards on shaking arms. A pained groan slips from her lips at the stabbing pain that lances up her spine.

"Threatening the future High King within his own hall, Dragonborn? Now that is bold."

A large hand grasps one ankle roughly. He yanks her towards him with a small grunt, causing the warrior to scrabble on the edges of the table. She urges herself to turn onto her back, glaring as she sees the large man standing before her, gazing down at her with a savage glint in his eyes. With ferocity, she throws her foot into the steel cuirass, hoping to knock him off balance.

He doesn't budge, scoffing at her attempt.

Her legs are in the air just short of the ground, the edge of the table pressing painfully into the back of her thighs. She is larger than most in stature due to years of training and fighting, yet the toned muscles of her body are nothing compared to the man above her. He is a large, imposing figure: the title of "Bear" is wholly fitting now she is closer to him than ever before.

His large hand snaps forward to latch around her throat, tight and bruising in its grip. She gasps and reflexively grabs his arm with both hands, eyes widening as the man steps forward and traps her legs against the table.

He pushes her head down with a thump , leaning over her heaving chest and speaking calmly. "You come into my palace to threaten me, warrior, yet you forget how I will become the next High King. Torygg was just as arrogant as you."

He watches as she chokes, eyelids fluttering with the effort of fruitlessly fighting against him.

"I taught him his place. Perhaps it is time I teach you yours."

No, no no no Gods no, I can't die here! Not to him! , her mind screams, tears now slipping from her eyes as she opens her mouth to force out a strangled, "P-please…"

Stormcloak pauses, his eyes noticing the beauty of the warrior - not as a fighter, no. As a female. A small mirthless smile spreads across his face with the realisation. He releases his grip on her throat slightly, letting the elf gasp air back into her lungs. The shine of tears down her temples sends a rush of heat to his groin.

Her white hair is fanned below her face, creating a halo of sorts as colour returns to her high cheekbones. Finally, she opens her eyes to find him merely… watching.

"Do it, then," she says with bravery. "Kill me like you want to."

A deep chuckle reverberates through his chest; she can feel the vibration, and with a start realises the claustrophobic warmth of his body so close to her own. What…

"No, Niraath." The use of her name makes her flinch, although it is fitting that he knows more about her than he will say. "Your place is beneath me, not only as a rival. But as a woman ."

The meaning of his words still her heavy breathing. Realisation dawns on her face and she begins to struggle anew, squirming with vigour against his grip. The hand on her throat pushes against her jaw, craning her neck back and exposing the skin to him. He leans down and breaths in, smelling the faint aroma of a spiced perfume across her skin. A whimper escapes the woman's lips as he presses his own against her skin, the short hair of his goatee against her skin an unwelcome sensation.

"Ulfric," she pleads, only seeing the upside-down entrance doors in her vision. His large fingers spread across her jaw, reaching her ear as his mouth slowly moves up her neck. He kisses and nips, licking a wet trail to her mouth. His hand now grabs a rough hold of her hairline, pulling her head up to finally press his lips against hers.

She presses her hands against his chest, anything to try to escape the lips moving slowly against her own, but the man's other hand easily traps both her wrists within its hot grasp. He is pulling her up, now, her back twinging with pain at the awkward angle he kisses her at.

"Give in," he murmurs against her mouth, moving to kiss her jaw. "That elf cannot give you what I can."

The mention of Jenassa sends her body rigid, but her mind does not dwell on the thought: now she is sitting upright on the edge of the table, one hand immediately cups her mound and presses against it, earning a sharp jolt from her in response. Her heavy breaths are the only sound in the room as Stormcloak leans over her, still gripping her wrists in his hand and pressing harder in a rhythmic fashion with his other.

The heel of his palm grinds against her clitoris, and she resists the sound that threatens to spill from throat. Her lips thin as she tries to ignore the blood rushing down below her navel, yet the closeness and hulking size of the man's body, and the way his hot breath scours her cheek, does little to quell the heated sensation.

He is strong, he is chiselled, and he is undoubtedly handsome. Niraath has never been with a man, only experiencing love and passion with Jenassa, but the desire now pooling in her nether proves that, perhaps, possibly… she wants this?

"Ever since Helgen," Stormcloak breathes against her cheek, "on long nights, I have thought of you. Your beauty, the way you shone with bravery that day. You are a forbidden fruit, elf. I must taste you. I have longed to taste you."

The words make her roll her hips against his hand. He smiles against her cheek, the hair of his goatee tickling her skin gently. A breath hitches in her throat as he presses the heel of his palm against her again, but the pressure is constant as his fingers begin to press into her cunt, moving up and down agonisingly.

On instinct, her head turns and she is now the one to kiss him, eyes closed as the breaths through her nose begin to grow heavier. A moan involuntarily sounds from her throat, which encourages Stormcloak to press his hand harder against her.

Her hands move, and with a cautious release from his grip, they cup his jaw eagerly. The man lets out a deep groan as he feels the size of her rough hands, smaller than he anticipated. Her cloak seemed to trick him into thinking she was larger than she actually is, and as their kisses increase in intensity he makes a mental note to ensure he undresses her before he takes her.

Niraath can't understand why her body responds so eagerly to the man she despises. Her mind reels between succumbing to the desire and remembering the one she has pledged her soul to. Stormcloak seems to know this, pulling away from her slightly with a gleam of superiority in his gaze. He's challenging me now, just as he did with the axe.

When a Nord procures a challenge, it is unwise for one to refuse, lest they lose the respect of others. She feels distaste for the custom and the choice now before her: accept and chance admiration for the man, or refuse and risk the whole of Skyrim knowing she is a coward?

The choice is easily made, for Niraath's fingers hastily undo the clasp of her cloak, shame flaming in her chest at the raise of Stormcloak's chin in response. His hands seek the buckles of her armour at her neck, her chest, her navel. Her breath hitches when, unlike his previous roughness, he pushes apart the armour lapels gently, exposing the white undershirt she wears. The cold air of the hall makes her nipples slowly pearl, and the two pause to watch: he to see her nipples poke into the fabric of her shirt, and she to see his reaction in the pause of his breath and dilation of his pupils.

He grabs at her hips, pulling her even closer to the edge of the table to kiss at her jaw. She gasps when his large hands take harsh hold of her breasts, immediately squeezing them in eagerness. Through the soft fabric, his heat is almost unbearable. Her arms snake under his fur coat to scrabble across the steel plating of his cuirass.

"Please," she gasps, "Take it off."

A low warning growl sounds from him. "Tread carefully, elf."

Granting her wish, he steps back and removes the steel vambraces across his forearms; they fall to the floor with a clatter, followed by the cloak. It falls behind him with a thump , and Niraath's hands reach upwards to remove the armour, just as he did with her. A scalding look halts her movements.

He forces her to watch, with mounting need, as the clasps clink . Finally, he removes the armour, irreverently casting it aside. The resulting harsh clang causes her to flinch.

Underneath his armour is a deep blue woven linen undershirt, similar to her own. Her lips part slightly at the vision of the muscles the fabric is snug against. Stormcloak lets a smirk spread across his lips as her orange eyes travel across his broad chest eagerly, drinking in the size of him. He does similarly, noticing that her body is slim yet tall and muscular. The darkness of her armour casts her full waist and slightly wider hips into sharp relief, and as he steps closer, he finds his hands fit perfectly around the curve of her hips.

"Gods above, elf. If I had known this was beneath your armour…"

Her hands press against his large chest eagerly, despite her unwillingness to show how desperate she is for his touch. She doesn't speak as he grips the material of her undershirt and pulls it from the waistline of her chausses until it is gathered above her breasts, exposing them to the cold air.

They are full, though smaller than what Stormcloak expected, but they are befitting of her body nonetheless. His right hand remains at her hip, his left coming up and fisting the golden flesh roughly. The female below him gasps when his fingers grip her darker nipple, pinching and rolling it. His eyes are full of admiration for her physical form, which sends more heat to her groin.

Glancing downwards, Niraath notices the bulge in his pants. She blinks in surprise, full lips parting at the size. A chill runs through her at the thought of what is undoubtedly to come; does she even want him to take her in that way? Her hesitation and stare is noticed, and his fingers grip her chin to pull it up, making her eyes meet his. "Have you ever laid eyes upon a man's genitals before?"

Her silence is answer enough for the man, and a shark's smile spreads across his lips. "My my, Dragonborn, this will be far more enjoyable than I anticipated."

The words send a pang of fear through her, and she begins to doubt herself. Her breasts have already been bared to him, their lips have already been interlocked - she may well have him inside her at this moment, with how far they have come. The unfaithfulness to her love began when he first pressed his lips to the skin of her neck, it had first begun when she didn't fight against his ministrations.

"No," she speaks, hard in tone. Her hands shake as they begin to pull the lapels of her armour closer together, not even bothering with the undershirt.

Stormcloak's face darkens, eyebrows drawing together. Her abrupt dismissal sends anger through him, the audacity of her tone an insult.

A deep growl emanates from him as he launches forward, grabbing both her wrists and slamming her back onto the table in retaliation. She cries out in pain, sudden tears springing into her eyes.

"Let me go!" she forces out between gritted teeth, throwing all her strength into pushing away from him and trying to throw his heavy weight off from her. She is unsuccessful, and his mirthless laugh frustrates her further.

Without even realising it, Stormcloak had forced her legs apart when he had pushed her back down; grabbing her wrists in one hand again, he stands and presses her hands together between her breasts, the strength of his arm alone enough to keep her pinned to the table.

"No!" she calls out at the feel of his hand moving the waistband of her chausses roughly downward, taking her undergarments with it. She tries to squeeze her thighs together, anything to prevent him from succeeding , but he takes a wide stance and forces her legs apart. Her position on the table immobilises her, and tears begin to enter her eyes as her fate is sealed in the stars above.

"Good elf," he comments approvingly, jaw tight as he struggles with the one hand to push the chausses down further. Finally, he moves them past her hips, down her shapely thighs, and they bunch around her ankles.

His gaze lands on her mound, drinking in the dark curly hair and thick lips eagerly. He moans as his thick fingers stroke her soft slit, drawing the lips apart to show her in all her womanly glory.

Niraath whimpers at the touch, intense shame flooding her chest as she can practically feel his gaze boring into the most intimate part of her body.

"Ulfric," she pleads, hoping it will gain his attention. He pauses, fingers at her entrance.

He leans over her, removing his hand from her mound. She breaths a tight sigh of relief, trying to meet his eyes through the blurriness of her tears. He meets her fearful eyes with a smile that does not meet his own.

"You have far outdone yourself, Niraath," he coos to her as if she is a child. She hears the rustling of fabric, and a sense of foreboding unfurls within her chest. "But you have not yet satisfied me fully."

Before she can stop him or cry out, something thick presses against her entrance. With a grunt, Ulfric pushes the head of his member past her opening, the pain flourishing immediately at the site. A squeak of pain leaves her lips, and she raises her head to look down to face her reality.

Gods , is the only thing she can think, before he shoves himself inside her with one thrust, the strength of the action pushing her up the table.

The pain is excruciating . Her back arches with the instant ache his sheer size brings to her body. Her arms go limp, her mouth open in a silent scream. He takes the opportunity to press his hand against her throat to prevent any possible movement.

He breathes heavily, allowing himself to relish the intense tightness he feels. With a groan, he opens his eyes and glances down, huffing with amusement.

"Look, wench," he commands, forcing her head up by the throat. Tears travel down her cheekbones, curving along her jaw. She blinks to clear her vision, and pales considerably when she sees the slight bulge protruding from her skin, just above her mound.

His free hand strokes the skin gently, pressing down and groaning when he feels the pressure on his member. "You're so tight," he murmurs, eyes closing in pleasure. She whimpers in response, a barely audible, "No…" leaving her lips.

He shoves her head back down again, hand coming to grip a breast as he leans over. His breath is hot on her cheek as he snarls, "You are nothing beneath me."

Her mind flares with anger, but it is promptly forgotten as he pulls his hips back, only to snap into her immediately after. A cry of pain falls from her lips, her head falling limply to the side. He begins to brutally move against her, an obscene squelching emanating from where their bodies are conjoined.

He raises back up, tightening the grip on her throat and pushing downwards. The elf below him wheezes, clenching her walls around him in an attempt to push him out. A groan of pleasure sounds from him, the feeling far more satisfying than any other woman he has bedded.

" Gods above ," he breathes, bunching the flesh of her breast hard enough to cause bruises. He looks down and sees the bulge of his member's head continuously retreating and reappearing, the intensity of the feeling increasing tenfold as he quickens the pace of his movement. With a twisted feeling of glee, he notices the blood staining his member.

He looks to her face, still to the side. With a rough slap to her exposed cheek and bruising grip on her chin, he wrenches her head upwards. "You have bled yourself on me, elvish whore ." He closes the distance, their noses now almost touching. "That deserves punishment ."

How can I be punished more than this? the elf wonders hazily. Her tears have stopped forming, a grim acceptance of the situation halting any bodily response. She can only feel the pain of his movements within her, and from the way he roughly squeezes her breast rhythmically.

Dissatisfied with her silence, Ulfric slams her head to the table with a loud CRACK . Yelling in pain, Niraath's vision blackens as she feels a warm wetness immediately coat the back of her scalp and hair.

"Answer me," he speaks quietly, slowing his thrusts to a painful rolling, moving his member within her in a circular motion. She groans again and can barely open her eyes to look at him. He returns his grip to her throat and leans over her, pressing his lips to hers forcefully. She grunts in refusal, but his tongue forces its way into her mouth with little resistance. Another whimper sounds in her throat when the pace of his hips change again, with short thrusts now pushing her to the limit of consciousness.

He parts from her, panting. His lust-filled icy eyes bore into hers. Her words are slow and slurred when she speaks: "How can you… punish me more…?"

He grins savagely. "So you can follow orders."

Giving no distinct answer, Ulfric finally removes his hands from her breast and throat. He grabs her hips to stop her sliding, and slowly pulls himself from her, causing Niraath to cry out when he finally exits her. They both pant, the sudden silence of the hall around them oppressive.

The man wastes no time, though, and pulls the female to stand up by the lapels of her armour. She almost falls into him, hands landing on his chest as her vision swims and centre aches. His hands come to rest on his hips as they look at one another at the same time; from a distance, it would look as if the two were in an enamoured embrace, unable to tear their gazes away from each other.

Reality is far harsher, though, and as she is spun around to see the mess of the dining table, Niraath's stomach sinks. She is shoved forward, kneecaps catching on the table edge painfully. She stops herself from falling face-first with her hands, and gasps when her legs are kicked roughly apart. Ulfric, behind her, grabs his member and looks at her wet, bloody entrance with a hunger in his eyes never before seen by another being.

He is animalistic in nature when he fists the bottom of her armour roughly, to keep her in place, and relishes the scream when he shoves himself back into her, moaning loudly as he throws his head back.

"Gods!" she screams out as he is deeper, far deeper than he was before. He has speared her, and it feels as though she is to be torn apart from his movements. Her arms buckle beneath her, and a hand between her shoulder blades shoves her further down. She moans when he begins to move once again, heated skin slapping against her own relentlessly.

His other hand comes to her front to feel the bulge again, larger than before. Seeing the fabled Dragonborn shattered beneath him fills the Bear with a savage glee, far more than any war victory ever could. She was powerless under him, nothing but a common whore, not a Nordic legend.

"You," he pants, "Are another street whore. Nothing more, Niraath. That- hah- that was my challenge to you."

A mewl of pain escapes her lips. Past white strands of hair she sees the towering man behind her watching her face as he continues with a smile on his lips: "You failed. You are not the warrior they claim you to be. The gods are watching us, and they- nngh - know your shame."

Her mind is too weak to fight his words. Fresh tears spring into her eyes as she sobs, openly admitting defeat in the face of her enemy. He laughs in return, a harsh sound that only degrades her further.

An idea comes to Ulfric's mind, and he roughly grabs her right arm and pulls it back, covering her hand with his large one as he forces her to feel the bulge of his member moving in and out of her abused body. She lets out another sob, shoulders shaking with the force of the sound.

Leaning down, he whispers into her ear, his breath blowing strands of her hair: "That is the feeling of your defeat ."

He sees her eyes squeeze shut in response. Frenzied by her reaction, he can finally feel his orgasm building. He keeps a tight grip of her hand, pushing her down even harder into the table, as he presses his chest into her back and begins rutting into her.

He's going to spill himself in me , she thinks glumly, more tears slipping past her nose and dripping to the wood beneath. The pain she feels is barely registering, now, as she slowly withdraws into herself. The only thing she can focus on is the movement of the accursed bulge, the heat of his hand suffocating her.

Stormcloak groans loudly, unable to bear the pleasure any longer. Rolling his hips, he throws his head back with tightly shut eyes and moans to the empty hall as spurts of his seed coat her insides. He feels the fingers of her hand tremble underneath his own.

Niraath cannot stop crying, his release brutal; it seals her failure to his challenge, and her defeat as a strong warrior. He is right , she thinks, shuddering and trembling underneath him. He continues to moan and roll his hips against her, every movement cementing herself further beneath him, in more ways than one.

Stormcloak's pants slowly quieten, as do Niraath's sobs. They are both still, adrenaline coursing through their bodies at the intensity of what has taken place. The Bear slowly comes down from his euphoric high, still feeling a twisted pleasure over his victory. He pulls out of her, already softening, and with a squelch the elf groans at the blissful feeling of emptiness.

He is not finished, however; roughly, he pulls her back up and makes her turn to face him. She sits on the table edge, hands limp in her lap as she gazes at from through puffy, weary eyes. "Please… no more," she begs, voice a hoarse whisper.

Chuckling at her pathetic plea, the man grabs a fistful of her undershirt that has since covered her breasts, and wipes her blood and her wetness from his member with it. The liquids stain the white fabric, the dampness and colour a stark reminder of the night's events.

Niraath is left to sit as she watches Stormcloak grab his armaments from the floor, reattaching his cuirass, slipping his arms through the sleeves of his coat and, finally, clasping his vambraces over his forearms.

Her head raises and she simply watches him collect one more item: his war axe. With a loud crack of splintering wood, he pulls it from behind her with a grunt. As he begins to walk towards the doors that lead to the rest of the palace, he turns to look back at the female once more. The axe mockingly glints in the torchlight.

The Dragonborn's face is turned to him, Altmer features once proud now languid and limp.

"You have the night," the Bear proclaims, turning on his heel after a pause. The clumps of his footsteps echo, before the BANG of the door seals Niraath within the stone prison.