I AM A GOOD GIRL. (started 6/16; 5:43pm) BECAUSE I FINISHED IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DX
Title: Unsympathetic Pain
Fandom: Street Sharks
- 'Verse: the dragon'verse
- Characters: Terry, John, Paradigm
Rating: NC-17
Notes: ...*cries*
The guttural bellows of the males were loud, egotistical, and most of all obnoxious. John had no love for the breeding rituals of the noisier sex; they were graceless, tactless, and barbaric. The bulls stomped around with their clawed feet and tails, grunting warningly at all but their bonded, mock charged the younger males showing off for the hen of their eye, and flat-out attacking them when they got too cocky. Brutes. He'd said as much to his father, outright stating how he hated the males' rutting at the unwisened age of eleven. Robert had confessed, regardless, it was best to bond with a dragon the same sex as yourself. The younger John reluctantly agreed, but not honestly.
The prancing and cat-coos of females in heat were much more graceful, delicate, refine. They were much more attractive during the breeding season than the males were, no doubt in his mind. And John had resolved himself, the next year, to bond with a female from the collective clutch. When his father had found him clinging fiercely to the unnamed Quiver in the barn, it had been too late to salvage a future complication. John'd expected an explosion of words and reprimands, but all Robert did as drag his hand over his face and groan, "You're going to regret this."
John knew why now. His regret would thankfully be short-term.
Dragons reached sexual maturity between eight and ten years old. Quiver was nine, and John knew immediately this would be the year, the season she hit her own maturity. Traditionally, all females facing their first active breeding season would be isolated to prevent impregnation, a lesson of expectancy. When the season ended, those isolated females were expected to observe and learn from the more experiences hens through their gestation, labor, and process of human hands-on care afterwards.
Quiver wouldn't get that treatment. There was no way to keep her from all the combined clans' males, not when the season hit the herds out of the blue like it did. The theory was the movement north forced it early for dragons used to warmer climates this time of year. It was too late to prevent it and with reluctance, it was accepted. But measures were taken. Mated pairs were strongly dissuaded from copulating, and bonded bulls were capable of being calmed down by their stronger minded humans. But that left the unbonded males (and there were enough) and those with weaker-willed partners to weather the urge. The unmated and the virgins were vulnerable to their own body functions and that was eminent and unavoidable.
And as vulnerable as they were, their partners were made like-wise. John couldn't spend all his time at Quiver's side, not when she was at her worse. The effects alone for human partners the First Time were...described as not publicly decent. And it became apparent why just that morning. John had been warned last year of what to generally expect, but it never exactly generated the same response in two people. Now, having spent all day and evening in a mixed state of agitation, anxiousness, and need, John was well versed in what to expect for next year, but that didn't help him at the moment.
"And now you know why normal people bond with dragons of their own gender," Terry berated in distraction. He flipped the page of his book. "Even the older dragons know that one."
John glared up at him from his mat, lips pursed tight together. Terry ignored him and pressed on. "You only made it harder on Quiver. Your minds aren't even compatible in these times, resulting in improper communication. And she definitely needs a proper woman to be dependable on the First Time."
"I get it," John ground out. "We'll be ready next year."
"Hardly." Terry eyed him critically. "T-Bone can protect her only so far. If she gets out of this barren, it'd be a miracle."
John wanted to snap back a retort, but it was laid aside to deal with another particular hormonal spike. It must've looked bad on the outside, because Terry slide down from his perch on the crate and said, "I'll go get you some more water."
John barely noticed he'd left the wagon at all. Sweat began rolling off his brow again, the flashes of heat attacking him, and in the back of his mind, could hear Quiver's wanting cry. John remembered his father mentioning her heat period would be harsh; her family had a history of it. Whatever he was feeling, she'd be feeling it four times worse. Coupled with a heavy pheromone expulsion, John had doubts about her purity kept in tact as well.
He rolled over and pressed himself face-first into the wall, curled up and tucked into a corner. His muscles trembled under the pseudo desire to be claimedby the strongest, by the best. How did women handle feeling like this anyway? Having to put up with a desire to be ravaged by a man, any man, as if it'd take the edge off. It was ridiculous. Did they feel it differently, to cope? Or was it really just as overwhelming as he was left to weather?
Left to pant, left to keel, left to writhe on his shabby mat with a babysitter hanging over him, because it ached too much to be left alone and exposed. Granted, it was embarassing having Terry (of all people) watch over him, but with him acting like John's pessimism, embarassment became the last thing on his mind. That, however, didn't stop the fleeting moments of disasterously close-to-self-abandonment that cropped up over the day. The current one was just the latest of an on-going campaign in his libido.
Someone was suddenly touching him; it didn't register immediately. A light grasp on his shoulder, gentle tugging to roll him backwards. Vertigo washed over and he fought to see what was going on. All John saw was a blurry, pale silhouette for a split second before something closed down over his eyes, putting him in the dark again. In the back of his mind, it occured to him this was unusual, personal, invasive, rude, wrong, and very much not right. There was a stray thought to be outraged, struggle, scream at the very least, but anything he recognized about the situation shifted gear in a heartbeat.
"Shhhhh." The breath across his lips stole away his to-be resistence, his lips trembling, stuttering. "I can help you."
With a promise like that, John had no interest in identifying who's voice was filtering with sultry tones into his ears. He squirmed instead, pushing back into the chest cradling him awkwardly, with an encouraging moan to emphasize just how much he consented to some 'help'. And when the other hand pressed enticingly to his still-clothed midriff, 'help' became all he could think of. His breath hitched in response.
No more words came forthwith, leaving John to the noises of his own making, breathy little gasps as he was teased by the hand rubbing the length of his torso, like one would on a hatchling or a dog. 'It felt good,' was an understatement, further adding to an arousal that didn't need aid. Forming words failed him, and John was pleasantly trapped in a spiraling descent, which got all that more better when the roaming hand suddenly kept going south.
He clung. Had no idea what he clung to, but as long as it didn't give way to air, he had an anchor. Free to keep his concentration on the rough caressing of his erection, with its pale-in-comparison friction over cloth but his legs still fell open. An obvious and salacious invitation if there ever was, and the desperate part of him wanted to be taken upon as quickly as possible. John didn't care who, what, or where; he was a slave to when and how. And as long as when was 'right now' and how was 'really hard', he might find it in himself to get over it later.
When at last, fingers delved underneath his belt-line and John all but melted with an exhale of delivered respite. The firm hold made his head swim and start to drown, and he was quite sure it was him making all that noise as his mystery suitor stroked his cock. He was pretty sure he was writhing, but that thought was in and out, chosing rather to acknowledge the rush of completion was as near as it was far. It wouldn't come; he wouldn't come, not for all the bucking of his hips could help to provide him. He whined lowly. It had to happen, so it could go away all that much sooner. But it wasn't; it was. It wasn't; it was. It--
His body snapped taut as the impending orgasm hit. It made him dizzy, that sweet feeling, and he managed to register he was being laid back down once he was calmed down some. But opening his eyes for a better look, something black began to form in his mind.
A bare glimpse before became highly more preferable as he stared up at his molester, transfixed with the sinking feeling he'd just made the worse careless mistake of his life. Paradigm half-smiled back, smug and cheap. "You won't last the season, just like your dragon won't."
Then, like a leaf in the wind, Paradigm was gone. And as he lay panting, curled up on his side ad trying to digest the now horrible pit replacing Quiver's resonance, all John could bear to think was a mantra of, Fuck.
DX Right, that sucked. Next time, I'm just implying. .... *misery spirits*
Fandom: Street Sharks
- 'Verse: the dragon'verse
- Characters: Terry, John, Paradigm
Rating: NC-17
Notes: ...*cries*
The guttural bellows of the males were loud, egotistical, and most of all obnoxious. John had no love for the breeding rituals of the noisier sex; they were graceless, tactless, and barbaric. The bulls stomped around with their clawed feet and tails, grunting warningly at all but their bonded, mock charged the younger males showing off for the hen of their eye, and flat-out attacking them when they got too cocky. Brutes. He'd said as much to his father, outright stating how he hated the males' rutting at the unwisened age of eleven. Robert had confessed, regardless, it was best to bond with a dragon the same sex as yourself. The younger John reluctantly agreed, but not honestly.
The prancing and cat-coos of females in heat were much more graceful, delicate, refine. They were much more attractive during the breeding season than the males were, no doubt in his mind. And John had resolved himself, the next year, to bond with a female from the collective clutch. When his father had found him clinging fiercely to the unnamed Quiver in the barn, it had been too late to salvage a future complication. John'd expected an explosion of words and reprimands, but all Robert did as drag his hand over his face and groan, "You're going to regret this."
John knew why now. His regret would thankfully be short-term.
Dragons reached sexual maturity between eight and ten years old. Quiver was nine, and John knew immediately this would be the year, the season she hit her own maturity. Traditionally, all females facing their first active breeding season would be isolated to prevent impregnation, a lesson of expectancy. When the season ended, those isolated females were expected to observe and learn from the more experiences hens through their gestation, labor, and process of human hands-on care afterwards.
Quiver wouldn't get that treatment. There was no way to keep her from all the combined clans' males, not when the season hit the herds out of the blue like it did. The theory was the movement north forced it early for dragons used to warmer climates this time of year. It was too late to prevent it and with reluctance, it was accepted. But measures were taken. Mated pairs were strongly dissuaded from copulating, and bonded bulls were capable of being calmed down by their stronger minded humans. But that left the unbonded males (and there were enough) and those with weaker-willed partners to weather the urge. The unmated and the virgins were vulnerable to their own body functions and that was eminent and unavoidable.
And as vulnerable as they were, their partners were made like-wise. John couldn't spend all his time at Quiver's side, not when she was at her worse. The effects alone for human partners the First Time were...described as not publicly decent. And it became apparent why just that morning. John had been warned last year of what to generally expect, but it never exactly generated the same response in two people. Now, having spent all day and evening in a mixed state of agitation, anxiousness, and need, John was well versed in what to expect for next year, but that didn't help him at the moment.
"And now you know why normal people bond with dragons of their own gender," Terry berated in distraction. He flipped the page of his book. "Even the older dragons know that one."
John glared up at him from his mat, lips pursed tight together. Terry ignored him and pressed on. "You only made it harder on Quiver. Your minds aren't even compatible in these times, resulting in improper communication. And she definitely needs a proper woman to be dependable on the First Time."
"I get it," John ground out. "We'll be ready next year."
"Hardly." Terry eyed him critically. "T-Bone can protect her only so far. If she gets out of this barren, it'd be a miracle."
John wanted to snap back a retort, but it was laid aside to deal with another particular hormonal spike. It must've looked bad on the outside, because Terry slide down from his perch on the crate and said, "I'll go get you some more water."
John barely noticed he'd left the wagon at all. Sweat began rolling off his brow again, the flashes of heat attacking him, and in the back of his mind, could hear Quiver's wanting cry. John remembered his father mentioning her heat period would be harsh; her family had a history of it. Whatever he was feeling, she'd be feeling it four times worse. Coupled with a heavy pheromone expulsion, John had doubts about her purity kept in tact as well.
He rolled over and pressed himself face-first into the wall, curled up and tucked into a corner. His muscles trembled under the pseudo desire to be claimedby the strongest, by the best. How did women handle feeling like this anyway? Having to put up with a desire to be ravaged by a man, any man, as if it'd take the edge off. It was ridiculous. Did they feel it differently, to cope? Or was it really just as overwhelming as he was left to weather?
Left to pant, left to keel, left to writhe on his shabby mat with a babysitter hanging over him, because it ached too much to be left alone and exposed. Granted, it was embarassing having Terry (of all people) watch over him, but with him acting like John's pessimism, embarassment became the last thing on his mind. That, however, didn't stop the fleeting moments of disasterously close-to-self-abandonment that cropped up over the day. The current one was just the latest of an on-going campaign in his libido.
Someone was suddenly touching him; it didn't register immediately. A light grasp on his shoulder, gentle tugging to roll him backwards. Vertigo washed over and he fought to see what was going on. All John saw was a blurry, pale silhouette for a split second before something closed down over his eyes, putting him in the dark again. In the back of his mind, it occured to him this was unusual, personal, invasive, rude, wrong, and very much not right. There was a stray thought to be outraged, struggle, scream at the very least, but anything he recognized about the situation shifted gear in a heartbeat.
"Shhhhh." The breath across his lips stole away his to-be resistence, his lips trembling, stuttering. "I can help you."
With a promise like that, John had no interest in identifying who's voice was filtering with sultry tones into his ears. He squirmed instead, pushing back into the chest cradling him awkwardly, with an encouraging moan to emphasize just how much he consented to some 'help'. And when the other hand pressed enticingly to his still-clothed midriff, 'help' became all he could think of. His breath hitched in response.
No more words came forthwith, leaving John to the noises of his own making, breathy little gasps as he was teased by the hand rubbing the length of his torso, like one would on a hatchling or a dog. 'It felt good,' was an understatement, further adding to an arousal that didn't need aid. Forming words failed him, and John was pleasantly trapped in a spiraling descent, which got all that more better when the roaming hand suddenly kept going south.
He clung. Had no idea what he clung to, but as long as it didn't give way to air, he had an anchor. Free to keep his concentration on the rough caressing of his erection, with its pale-in-comparison friction over cloth but his legs still fell open. An obvious and salacious invitation if there ever was, and the desperate part of him wanted to be taken upon as quickly as possible. John didn't care who, what, or where; he was a slave to when and how. And as long as when was 'right now' and how was 'really hard', he might find it in himself to get over it later.
When at last, fingers delved underneath his belt-line and John all but melted with an exhale of delivered respite. The firm hold made his head swim and start to drown, and he was quite sure it was him making all that noise as his mystery suitor stroked his cock. He was pretty sure he was writhing, but that thought was in and out, chosing rather to acknowledge the rush of completion was as near as it was far. It wouldn't come; he wouldn't come, not for all the bucking of his hips could help to provide him. He whined lowly. It had to happen, so it could go away all that much sooner. But it wasn't; it was. It wasn't; it was. It--
His body snapped taut as the impending orgasm hit. It made him dizzy, that sweet feeling, and he managed to register he was being laid back down once he was calmed down some. But opening his eyes for a better look, something black began to form in his mind.
A bare glimpse before became highly more preferable as he stared up at his molester, transfixed with the sinking feeling he'd just made the worse careless mistake of his life. Paradigm half-smiled back, smug and cheap. "You won't last the season, just like your dragon won't."
Then, like a leaf in the wind, Paradigm was gone. And as he lay panting, curled up on his side ad trying to digest the now horrible pit replacing Quiver's resonance, all John could bear to think was a mantra of, Fuck.
DX Right, that sucked. Next time, I'm just implying. .... *misery spirits*