The Benefits Of Being A Marine Biologist (Part 3)

Neglected Beta!Y/N And the bad pack! 141

Part1.

(No user's names are mentioned, the user's description is as a female, angst,The changed nature of the characters, my vision on them,there may be mistakes in words -English is not my first language)

Omegas-gentle creatures with soft personalities, smells, and sincere purity-were what Pack 141 wanted, but their psychiatric records, their mental health records, unfortunately didn't allow the pack to have an omega. Eventually they'd either torture the poor thing or gnaw each other, so they were left to enjoy their rare encounters with girls.

Until at some point, in the midst of a conversation between old friends, Laswell did not offer Price an easier option - Take in the pack beta, to convince the commission distribution center that their pack is quite stable and able to live with omegas.

And it's got Price pretty damn hooked. Like be nice to the beta for a couple months and then they'll reward you with a full-fledged mate?

And they're going for it.

The whole pack was in awe of the idea, and even Ice Ghost couldn't help but grin when the beta contract was approved. Just a little bit more and they'd have a full-fledged member of the pack-a gentle and sweet omega...

When you arrived at the house, the Man with the Mohawk, Soap, that's what he called himself, kindly helped carry your suitcases to the door and your room, and the black-skinned guy with the charming smile kissed your hand upon meeting you, affectionately calling you "my lady."

Honestly, when you got the acceptance letter from the pack, fear and anxiety didn't leave you - usually all packs wanted omegas, but here, a pack that wanted a beta, who liked you and met you so kindly, couldn't have been more excited. Damn it, your legs were shaking before the meeting, because the fear of being unrecognized, unwanted in your own pack had been haunting you since your student days, when you found out that you were just an ordinary beta.

There were also advantages to the plan: no heat, no need to pretend to be nice, as omegas did, and complete freedom of action, that is, even on the street to walk is not so scary.

You spent the whole evening preparing for full acceptance into the pack, getting a tag was the most valuable and important thing for any omega and beta in the pack, as a sign of her need.

The dress was perfect, and the light makeup emphasized the natural beauty of your face while your hair framed everything in its softness. Well, the presence of a carefully chosen set of red lingerie added spice to it, making you smile to yourself and giggle quietly.

Hell, it's so long overdue that your legs buckle and get woozy and your palms sweat when you walk down to the living room and see the table where there were appetizers, five glasses, and a beer. Beer? Not exactly what you expected, but what if your alphas don't like fancy wine or champagne?

To hell with it.

You step closer and Price grins and picks up your shoulders, pulling you to the couch, letting you sit between him and Soap. Just the thought of their rough hands touching your body makes everything hotter, and you smile.

They laugh too, Soap takes you by the shoulders, chokes on your glass and gets carried away with the conversation again.

Glass after glass, you try to cut into the conversation but they just discuss their missions, hardships and training plans .You just keep quiet.

One last clink of glasses, and soon it's time to disperse: Ghost and Gaz are the first to leave, having gone upstairs, Price is yawning, and Soap is about to leave too, and shit, you feel the heat spill down your thighs at the thought of them waiting for you up there, and you stop Soap.

"John... Ahh.. What about the mark?" -you ask in a playful tone, to which the guy with the Mohawk smiles in surprise and says, "mark.., oh, yeah, right, honey."

You smile back, and he holds out the dirty plates to you with a satisfied grin.

"What's this?" - You mutter puzzledly.

"A little cleaning won't hurt, baby," he winks, and you, out of control, set off to wash the dishes with more enthusiasm than you've never washed them before.

Done. You go upstairs and adjust your dress before going to your room, but... it's empty. Puzzled, you look into Price's room - he's asleep, the soap is asleep, and you don't even bother to look in the ghost and gas room. Maybe they just drank too much and fell asleep.

That's what you were hoping.

But in the morning it was like no one remembered you, didn't say good morning or anything, and in the evening the gas just said he and the guys were going to the gym for a workout.

At seven o'clock at night? Must be some kind of evening membership. But no, and no again. At night, like a faithful dog in waiting, you're only greeted by awkward smiles, the smell of women's perfume mixed with omega pheromones, and it hurts.

"Where's my mark?" - You ask incredulously as Gaz giggles and Soap, the most talkative of them all, explains with a smile that it's still early. Early for what? Are they still looking at you? Is there something wrong with you?

Or is it because you're not an omega?

But no, you dismiss those thoughts and start cutting up a piece of raw meat, trying to cook it to make it more flavorful, but it's not Well done and it never will be. What's the point of trying, what's the point of trying if you're never gonna make it?

You'll never be the right person.

It was Wednesday when you first caught Gaza in some girl's arms. "Colleague?" That's right. It's just a coworker, just another coworker, just.... Accept it so you don't feel your heart ache again.

The days go by the same, and it's very lonely here. No one hears or sees. Price and Ghost had a conscience and never brought anyone to your house. Is it yours? No.

"Just a little bit more, lads, and I can already see a delicate bird in a red apron circling our kitchen and cooking a delicious steak." says Soap with his trademark bright smile, reclining on the sofa.

"Better in red panties," Gas replies with a laugh, his eyes unconsciously rolling with satisfaction.

"better without"-Ghost's deep bass draws everyone's attention, and the rest of you let out an approving chuckle.

You're a good person, a really nice person, a great friend, and everyone knows it. But . You're a beta, and everyone realizes that.

If they told you at the distribution center that you were an omega, how much would things be different? How much brighter your life would be and how much more beloved you'd be by everyone around you?

"I need to go to the store," you interrupt in a surprisingly loud voice. You don't want to hear a word about it, you don't want to know, you want them to shut up. You don't want to endure this pain, this crushing feeling of your own worthlessness and inferiority.

Everyone visibly tenses, and Soap and Gaz look at each other - this evening, neither of them wanted to drive to the store, which is at least an hour away by car if you don't count traffic. They wanted to relax in a bar and maybe wake up in the arms of a charming lady, not in a damn store!

"Rock-paper-scissors!" - Soapy cheerfully suggests, and Ghost snorts in response, but agrees.

It's disgusting. It's disgusting to stand there and watch four big guys, alphas,who promised to protect you in the distribution center, swear to the administration that they're proud of this beta,That they love you,but competing to take you to the store because no one wanted to do it. No one.

It's not your fault you don't have a car. It's not your fault the rules are in place.

"Fuck! " John yells, and his face takes on an agonized expression, as if driving with you would be sheer hard labor, and desperation is written all over his face as he speaks, albeit with a smile: "Don't ride without me, boys! ".

It's a long drive to the store, but nevertheless, once you're in the supermarket, you start picking up your grocery list, walking through the departments with concentration, while MacTavish lazily walks along, looking at the grocery racks and sticking his hands in his pockets. You don't notice him walking away, noticing the cute girls with the sweetest scent of pheromone omegas.

That's a hell of a catch. The smile doesn't leave his face as he waltzes over to the liquor section, demonstratively grabs a bottle of expensive cognac, and winks at one of the girls, emitting more alpha pheromone.

"Who's the handsome one here?" says the boldest of the girls, attracting attention. They are all so beautiful, such bright and colorful girls in their beautiful dresses and heels, just fire stirring the alpha's senses.

"Looking for the company of sweet omegas"- he says with his trademark smile, and one of the girls, a blonde, giggles.

Damn it! When they're all over him, pressing their fragile bodies against his, hanging on his elbows, hugging, he's completely oblivious to everything,

He forgot about you.

Forgotten as he led the Omegas away from the store with the bags of liquor and snacks he'd grabbed at speed. He forgot when he put them in his car and drove away.

"More milk... Do we have coffee at home, John? " you say out loud, but get no answer and look up. There's no soap around. It's strange. You look around uncertainly, wondering if he went to get something on the list or to another department. You look around. You wander around the store in confusion until you decide to look out the window, thinking you'll see the soap there - maybe he decided to go outside the store for a smoke. You peek into the parking lot, but .... no car.

No car? Why? Did something happen? You carelessly pull it out of your pocket, dialing the maktavish's number. Nothing.

Shit. He had all money, and no soap, no price, no Gaz, not even a Ghost, no one picks up the phone. In desperation, you leave the cart almost in the middle of the store and hurry out, intending to find the soap, to try to call outside, hoping the whole problem is a bad connection.

It's dark outside, and there isn't a single car in the whole damn parking lot. Scary.

Your phone only has a couple percent charge, but you don't give up trying to call. Panicking at 1%, you only manage to send the phrase, "Please pick me up guys, I'm scared," before your phone goes off.

You sit down on the doorstep of the store and just stare at the road, hoping a car will stop and pick you up.

But it doesn't, and it's only the salesman who changes the store sign from "open" to "closed" as he walks away.

(I'm posting the second part right away. I don't understand why I'm drawn to the same topic, an incomprehensible melancholy)

My partner, I swear...

So we both had a day off last week and we decided, fuck it, we were gonna go wandering, hit up a few thrift shops, even the actual mall for once... She suggested I wore a skirt and my collar, and I'm okay with this... Should have known from the glint in her eyes why she picked the one with an elastic waistband... But I thought nothing of it and we headed out. We'd been browsing around the first shop, when she gently shoves me into this little nook with a grin on her face. I feel tendrils running up my leg, and she kisses me deeply as she worms her way inside, muffling my noises, her finger hooked into the ring on my collar. She didn't pull away until she'd put two or three eggs in me. I'm flustered, I definitely came right there, but I manage to give her a glare. Can't have her always thinking I'm made of putty... even if I am, especially with a clutch stuffed into my belly. She smirked, and gave me a wink. Her hand keeps finding excuses to cup my belly, to touch me where she's filled me, wordless ways of saying *you're mine, and this proves it*... she even give the maternity section of the store a knowing look. I should browse that more often... She found another spot to yank me into, first, and in a heated moment of passion, I feel her slip inside me again, I quiver against her, and she put another few eggs in me... more than last time, but... I wasn't exactly counting, I just saw my tummy visibly puff up between us. "Is this what you plan on doing all day?" I moan softly into her ear, cradling my swollen belly. the feeling of my womb suddenly stretching to double its last size and then some leaves me breathless.

y’know who gives the best blowjobs? soap and simon.

the pair of them are cheeky and playful when they're paired together.

it was johnny's plan. his idea was to corner you in and overstimulate you until you were reduced to nothing but a shaking, crying mess.

your thighs are forced open with your cock achingly hard, twitching at the sight of both men looming over you. simon's thick fingers grip your cock, leaning over you intimidatingly, his eyes half-lidded and a grin obviously plastered on his face with the way his eyes crinkle. god, you can barely meet his eyes before he grips your chin, tilting your head towards him to maintain eye contact while he jerks you off slowly.

you can feel johnny's lips and warm tongue against your heavy balls. he massages your ballsack while sucking on them, coating them in his drool. he chuckles at the reaction he gets out of you. all johnny wants to see is you begging, pleading with them for permission to come.

for the next couple of hours, you're nothing but their toy to use and play with.

simon will fuck your tight asshole. so unused, with your cock leaking all over your abdomen at the pleasure. you've been dreaming of this, you won't lie. you've been fantasising about the addictive sensation of simon's lengthy dick filling your holes, while johnny slaps his weeping dick against your cheek and orders you to tilt your head back and allow him to use your throat.

you're just a private, nothing in comparison to your sergeant and lieutenant.

your boner throbs and aches at the sudden lack of attention. before, they couldn't keep their hands off of your dick and balls, and now they were neglecting your poor, sore cock. you plead through deep breaths for them to jerk you off, tears rolling down your cheeks slowly with your bottom lip quivering.

“pathetic—so damn greedy, aye? yer’ gettin’ fucked by simon and suckin’ my dick, and yet ye’ still want more? dirty boy.” johnny growls out teasingly. he's so condescending and cruel with his words, he knows exactly how to rile you up.

the taste of johnny's bitter load lingers on your tongue. you choke out a string of incoherent words before you're coming all over yourself uncontrollably, strings of your hot arousal landing against your chest.

“didn’t say you could come, private.” simon grumbles out disappointedly, flipping you onto your stomach. his gloved hand pins your head down while he slaps and rubs his bulbous cock against your ass for a second round.

they'll go at it until you're obedient and know how to behave, until you're sobbing and babbling out an apology, offering your body to them in return for their forgiveness and sympathy.

cw: f slur (i blame @rodolfoparras)

thinking about a homophobic misogynist man who just can’t get off like how he used to before he met you. no matter how times he fists his cock, is balls deep into some random women; none of it mattered. it was never enough, he was never satisfied. but when he thinks about his last “session” with you… he’s throbbing and rock hard within seconds (aww is that pre cum on the tip?) he tries to brush it off as nothing more than a little meeting between guys, he’s not a fag and he’ll never will be. his actions speak other wise but he’s way too narcissistic and delusional to see his contradiction.

he’s in too deep in his fantasy to hear himself whining and moaning like a bitch as he fucks into the tight hole of his hand. his eyes brimmed with tears as he recalled you holding his legs against his chest as your fat cock drilled into his sore hole, your pelvis slapping lewdly against his ass. he called you every insult in the book, but you didn’t care. in fact, his bitching made you pound into him harder.

he spat on his pointer and middle finger and slid a shaky hand down to his hole. it twitched and clenched around nothing, he felt so empty. he forces his two fingers inside him to the knuckle, if there was a heaven, he just saw it. as the fantasy continued, he only got more desperate. he bucked into his fist like a mutt in heat as his fingers thrust in and out of his tight heat. his pillows are drowning in drool at this point.

you call him your pretty princess, whose pussy was made to take your dick. your digits wrapped themselves around his throat, his adam’s apple bopping under your palm. taking in as much air as he could before you took it with the thunderous pace of your hips.

he never wished for a third arm more in his life. before long, he let out a pathetic, little, tiny sigh of “daddy” as he came all over his hand and belly. he lays on his soaked sheets absolutely exhausted. his first good nut in ages. he thinks about you again, and remembers he has a huge cucumber in his fridge he was about to blend into his work out smoothie.

his cock is leaking pre instantly.

CALL OF THE SEA - MASTERLIST

Pirate 141 x F!Reader

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Updates every Saturday unless said otherwise.

> Spotify Playlist

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen

Part Nineteen

Part Twenty

Part Twenty-One

Fuck it, we ball, I hope that disrespectful anon gets hemorrhoids and they can't get them removed until next year, AND that their insurance doesn't cover it. I'm here thinking about your Omega idea where omegas normally do the pursuing, but with a slight twist; the boys being the omegas. An alpha who is for sure down bad for the boys, but thinks "ah, theyre out of my league, I should be aiming lower, manage my expectations". Only 141 is just as down bad for them, and they're doing everything just short of screaming "PICK UP ON THE HINTS, COME INTO OUR HOUSE AND BEDS AND LIVES AND STAY FOREVER PLEASE"

Johnny is about to say fuck decorum and just show up in reader's house wearing nothing but a ribbon and a tag that says 'free to a good home' (your home is the good one, please keep him, there is no receipt so you can't return him).

Price has the brain cell normally in terms of trying to gently coax you into getting you to say you're into them, he has a 15 step plan that may or may not involve using his various contacts to get you spending more time in close proximity to them. Also he for some reason is always baking, he always comes over asking you for sugar? (He'll take any kind of 'sugar' you're willing to offer, he loves making a variety of cream pies)

Gaz is always gently inviting them to attend 'friend' things, things that could be a date but that he can excuse as 'well we're coworkers/friends/neighbors, we should get along :)'. It's just a coincidence that various other people seem to bail except for any of the other boys, now why don't you sit beside him so you guys can share popcorn at the movies (you both always seem to be reaching for it at the same time, if your fingers touched anymore you might as well be holding hands)

Simon is chasing off any omegas he thinks are a threat to them getting reader, that is THEIR alpha, paws OFF (rip to anyone reader was halfheartedly going on dates with, this man is gonna become those people's sleep paralysis demon)

Hope you enjoy!! :3 💕💕 i lovedddd writing this sm omg

See, the thing is, you’d always thought of yourself as a decent Alpha. Not overbearing, not egotistical, not a demanding freak- just capable and steady. But you weren’t extraordinary. Not the kind of Alpha Omegas like them would look at twice. And so, while you worked alongside the men of Task Force 141 you convinced yourself to be content with just admiring them from a distance.

You couldn’t help it. They were perfect, as far as you were concerned. Perfect, and fully out of your league.

Surely, Omegas like them would want someone better. Someone stronger. You’d told yourself that so many times it was practically your mantra, the only way you’d be able to stop yourself from pursuing them. They deserved someone more charismatic, more confident- an Alpha who could match their brilliance. Not someone like you, fumbling through conversations with them, struggling to keep your feelings in check.

But they’d already decided. They didn’t need a flashy Alpha or someone who tried too hard. What they wanted was you. The only problem? You didn’t seem to realize it, no matter how obvious they made it.

John took the lead, naturally. He knew you were cautious and perhaps a little insecure when it came to relationships (it was fucking visible in you, silly Alpha. He scoffs each time you draw back, frustrated), so he made it his mission to draw you in- slowly and subtly. His plan was meticulous: get you comfortable, build trust, and create opportunities for you to spend more time with them so you’d see that they only want you.

Maybe then you’d break out of that stupid shell you’ve put yourself in.

He’d started baking regularly, a habit you hadn’t even known he had. At least once a week, he’d show up at your place with a tin of cookies, a loaf of fresh bread, or a perfectly golden pie. “Thought I’d share,” he’d say casually, though the slight smirk tugging at his lips told a different story. He peers at you, letting his scent coil just a bit more. “I hope you don’t mind the amount of cream. I happen to like cream pies a lot.”

The way to an Alpha’s heart is through their stomach, and all that.

If he wasn’t offering you baked goods, he was asking for your help to make said baked goods. “Ran out of sugar again,” he’d sigh, handing you an empty container. “Mind sparing a bit?”

It was ridiculous, downright unbelievable how often he supposedly ran out of baking supplies. But his visits became a highlight of your week, and the lingering looks he gave you left your heart pounding long after he was gone.

The one time he’d handfed you, watching you lick the syrup from his fingers with half-lidded eyes, still lives in your mind rent-free.

Kyle took a softer, more personal approach. He wasn’t above using the pretense of friendship to spend time with you, often inviting you to casual dates- grabbing coffee, going to the movies, or just walking through town and shopping. Every invitation was framed innocently, but there was always a little extra effort behind it. He’d pick a movie he knew you’d like, suggest places he knew you’d find interesting, and ensure that others you unfortunately knew joined just enough to make it seem less like a date.

Somehow, though, those other people always mysteriously canceled. It was never anything dramatic- just a sudden cold, a scheduling conflict, or a “something came up, sorry.” Eventually, it would be just you and a very smug Kyle, sitting close enough that your knees brushed or reaching for popcorn at the same time. Once, right as the bowl emptied and you both reached for it, Kyle simply thought fuck it and held your hand.

On one occasion, you both shared a bowl of spaghetti and ended up with the scene from the Lady and the Tramp.

It was so painfully obvious to everyone.

Except you.

“It’s not a coincidence,” Kyle muttered to Johnny one evening after you left, both of them sitting in the spot you were in, bathing in the leftover warmth and scent. “How can they not notice?”

Speaking of Johnny; he’s barely keeping himself together. Subtlety in missions are a must sometimes, but he doesn’t want to that with you anymore. He was just so, so, so frustrated with your obliviousness. What more does he need to do to show you that he- that they- want you?

He’s been dropping so many hints; half-jokes about Omegas waiting begging to be swept off their feet, suggestive winks when you compliment him in that lovely, adoring tone of yours. Once, while watching a romantic tv show, he’d sighed loudly and very pointedly said: “If only someone would claim me.”

“If ye don’t figure it out soon,” he growled at the others one night, pacing back and forth like a wild beast and probably on his way to leave a dent in the carpet, “I’m showin’ up at their doorstep with nothin’ but a red bow, like some bloody Christmas prezzie, I swear to god.”

John sighs, rolling his eyes. “You do that, and I’m leaving you on their porch.”

“That’s exactly what I’m askin’ for!”

Simon took the quietest but most direct approach. Just not exactly direct towards you. While the others worked to get closer to you, Simon focused on eliminating what he saw as obstacles: other Omegas who thought you were free for the taking. It didn’t matter if they were serious or just someone you’d gone on a casual date with- Simon saw them all as threats.

He didn’t have to say much to scare them off. A single cold glare from across the room, sharp bursts of his scent, or a low, menacing comment was usually enough to send them packing. He didn’t care if it was excessive.

You were his Alpha. You were their Alpha, and no one else had a right to you.

But even Simon softened when it came to you. He couldn’t put all his thoughts, all his feelings into words, so he did them with his actions. Quiet protectiveness, gentle, careful touches. Moments of fleeting vulnerabilities shared between you and him.

He was always there for you. Even if you didn’t know you need him with you.

Still, despite all their efforts, you remained convinced that they weren’t interested.

In the end, to no one’s surprise, it’s Johnny who snaps. Johnny, so close to his heat, so absolutely done with your obliviousness and the Omegas that aren’t them talking with you when you should be only focused on them.

He doesn’t care; leaves the carefully made nest with your stolen shirts and none of the others stop him when he just. Drags your surprised self to the nest.

“Johnny! You-“

“I want you.” He hisses, bares his teeth all sharp and desperate. “We want you. And damn it, we will have you.”

And well, who are you to even say no when this is all you have wanted?

(Poly 141 x fem reader)

You had always been their sweetheart.

Soft, tender, and gentle- the heart of their home. The warmth in the spaces between them, the one they curled around after long days of violence, soothed by your touch and your voice, the way you cared for them without hesitation. No matter how much blood stained their hands, no matter what nightmares haunted their sleep, you were there. Unshaken. Unyielding in your love, hands gentle and soft as you cradled them close and warm.

So they had never needed to know about the things you kept buried.

The past you refused to unearth. The things you could do, the person you had been before them- before you had a home to call your own, before you had people who held you just as carefully as you held them.

They didn’t need to know, and you didn’t need to think about it.

Until they went missing.

You first learned something was wrong when John’s daily check-in didn’t come.

It had always been a habit of his, something he did without fail, no matter how far away he was. Just to let you know I’m breathing, love. That was what he had said, years ago, the first time he had explained it to you. You had teased him for it- What, you don’t trust me to not burn the house down?- but he had only smiled, voice steady and sure when he told you, I like knowing you’re safe.

It had never failed. Not once. Even when he himself could not text you, Lasswell herself assured you they were fine and merely had to be careful.

But now came the silence.

No messages. No calls. No updates.

You tried not to panic. They were on a mission, after all. Maybe something had gone wrong with their comms, or maybe they had been forced to go dark, and Lasswell was busy. It had happened before, and they had always come back to you, whole and alive, pressing their faces into your neck, murmuring apologies and reassurances.

But then a full week passed.

Then two.

And no one would tell you a thing and Lasswell wasn’t picking up, either.

You had tried- had called, had knocked on doors, had pushed until you were met with polite deflections and stone-cold refusals.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that information is classified.”

“There’s nothing we can share at this time.”

“We appreciate your patience.”

Patience.

As if you would sit here, helpless, and just wait. Hopeless, and helpless, and unable to do a single thing to help then.

No. No, you had done that before. You had waited before. And it had cost you everything.

You weren’t that girl anymore. You weren’t a victim of circumstance, hoping for scraps of kindness, praying for someone to do right by you.

If no one would help, you would do it yourself; because they were yours, and they were the best thing that have ever happened to you, and you weren’t going to lose them.

Tracking them down was easier than you expected.

You had spent years curating the image of someone soft and harmless, someone not worth keeping secrets from. And people loved to talk. Especially when they thought you were just a grieving, desperate woman trying to find a lost fiancé and his friends.

All it had taken was a few well-placed words, a few tearful looks, and doors had opened.

It had taken only days to pinpoint their last known location, then. After you’d hunted down Laswell, and had her help you. Though you were glad to see that she was working to find out where they were, as well, and merely lacked the manpower because of some general named Shepherd.

You filed the name away for later thoughts.

A warlord with connections to arms smuggling in Eastern Europe. An old base, abandoned by one regime and taken over by another. And your men had been sent in to dismantle it.

But they hadn’t come back. MIA, the reports said.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t care for those three letters. You moved.

You gathered supplies, mapped out your route, planned your approach with the precision of someone who had done it before. You emptied old caches, dusted off weapons you hadn’t touched in years, and set off.

The infiltration was clean; a single shadow among many, slipping between patrols, cutting down obstacles with silent, brutal efficiency. Years it may have been, you hadn’t gotten as rusty as you’d feared you’d be.

You had never been squeamish. You had learned long ago that softness had no place in survival- but it could thrive and bloom in the aftermath, a stubborn weed that eventually makes way for a full bouquet.

But this was different.

This was fury burning in your blood as you carved a path forward, every movement precise- you couldn’t afford any less.

You didn’t stop, no matter what.

Not until you found them at last, and your heart ached something fierce abd sharp in your chest.

Caged. Beaten. Bound but not broken- and drugged.

I should have been more rough, you mourn for a split second. An easy death was more mercy than what was deserved.

John’s head lifted first, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Love-?”

Then Simon, bloodied but breathing, his body sluggish with whatever chemicals they had pumped into him. Every part of him was covered in blood and cuts.

Johnny’s voice, then, hoarse and raw, full of disbelief and worry. “No. No, you’re not- this insnae real-“

And Kyle, whose breath hitched as you knelt beside him, gentle fingers brushing against his bruised face.

They thought they were dreaming; they thought you weren’t real.

And maybe that was a… mercy.

Because if they had been clear-headed, if they had seen what you had done to get here, if they had watched the way you had cut down anyone in your path with merciless efficiency-

They would have looked at you differently.

And you couldn’t bear that. To have their illusion of your gentleness shattered like that…

So you played along.

Whispered reassurances, pressed kisses to sweat-damp foreheads, untied their bindings with careful hands. You coaxed them to move, guided them through the corridors you’d emptied, wiped away the blood that dripped from their skinz

And when they sagged against you, too dazed to fight, too lost in the haze of their drugged delirium, you held them-

Kept them safe, and brought them home.

Later, they woke in a hospital, clean and stitched and safe.

You were already there, fussing over them, your voice soft and sweet, your fingers gentle as you pressed cool cloths to fever-warm skin, brushed stray curls from foreheads, adjusted pillows and blankets with quiet determination. Dressed in something white and pink, the colors of innocence, nails cleaned of blood even if your hands will never be truly clean.

You looked the same as ever.

Pretty and delicate, their lovely girl, their tender-hearted sweetheart.

And for all that had happened, all that they had suffered, all that you had done-

They never suspected a single thing, and you didn’t tell them; didn’t tell them that there had been no extraction team. That there had been no grand military rescue- not even from the the same military that had abandoned them.

(His name was General Shepherd. You will not forget it- you’d need to carve his name on the bullet you’ll save just for him, after all.)

That it had been you.

Only you.

Only Laswell knew the truth, and she would keep your secret because she understood what it meant to protect the people you loved.

And if you had to carry this weight alone to keep them from ever looking at you like you were something other-

So be it.

You sat beside John, pressing a kiss to his temple as his fingers curled weakly around yours.

You smiled at Simon when his hand brushed against your knee, seeking reassurance, seeking you, his eyes tired.

You let Johnny hold you, his arms tight around your waist as he mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder, still half-lost in the remnants of the drugs.

And when Kyle murmured: “At leas’ you’re safe, pretty.” His voice thick with sleep-

You just smiled and ran your fingers carefully through his hair, and held them the way you always had.

And pretended that everything was exactly the same.

Expanding on this.

warnings: perv!König, noncon groping, somno, titfucking

-

Best Friend!König who’s obsessed with your tits.

You’ve known each other since childhood, and while he shot up in height, you shot up in bra size. And König noticed. Mien Gott, did he notice.

He was around fifteen when he realized for the first time just how nice your breasts felt against his big body when he hugged you, so soft and warm. He started taking any excuse to give you long, drawn out hugs—though of course he told himself it was just because he loved you so much. You were the only person who didn't bully him, after all.

He rationalized how his gaze started to end up on your cleavage more often than your face, too. He was just so tall, that even if he tried to look into your eyes—and he did, Schatz, he really did! You have to believe him, he tried so hard—he could see straight down your top, anyway.

And, well, he was no saint—just a man. And your tits were so pretty.

Could you really blame him for looking? He just wanted to admire you…

He always insisted on driving you places once he got his license—he was a good friend, after all, and he liked being useful. That he got to throw his arm out across your soft chest every time the car in front of him stopped too suddenly was just a bonus.

As the years passed by, his obsession grew—especially after he found porn. Most nights, he fisted his long, fat cock to videos of women who looked like you having their breasts played with, abused, worshipped. He preferred the latter, but he couldn’t deny there was something thrilling about the idea of slapping your soft tits and watching them jiggle. He would be sure to kiss them better after, though.

Once, after a particularly rough mission, König showed up at your place beaten to hell, eyes scarily hollow. You immediately let him inside, pulled him down onto your couch, and held him as he cried. He laid his head on your chest, seeking the comfort only your breasts could give him, and you shushed him softly as you petted his hair. He wished desperately in that moment that he could pull your top down, latch onto one of your cute little nipples, and suckle to his heart’s content, but he settled for leaning more and more of his weight on you until you had to lay back on the couch, him on top of you with his face buried in between your tits as he feigned sleep.

He was far too heavy for you to move yourself, and clearly, you felt bad for him, because you let him stay like that the whole night rather than wake him up.

On your twentieth birthday, König made sure he would have two whole weeks of leave, so he could spend time with you and your perfect breasts. He didn’t have the best relationship with his family, and you didn't have a roommate at Uni, so you let him stay in your dorm. You weren’t going to make your best friend sleep on the floor, of course, so the two of you shared a bed. Nothing untoward happened until the fourth night, when you both got outrageously drunk. You curled up in the tiny bed together when you got back from the pub, and promptly knocked out.

When you woke up the next morning, though, it was to one of König’s massive paws slipped under the neck of your dress, cupping your left tit.

To say you freaked out was an understatement.

You jumped up like you arse was on fire, hollering at him, demanding to know what the fuck he thought he was doing. König, who had been dead asleep, actually fell out of the bed, looking up at you for once, his big, perpetually sad eyes wide with complete confusion and a little bit of fear. When he realized what you were accusing him of, he started stuttering apologies, mortified with himself. You thought it was because he had unintentionally groped you in his sleep, which was partially true. But the main reason he was so upset was because he hadn’t even gotten to enjoy it. He’d held your beautiful breasts for the very first time and he hadn’t even known! The thought made him tear up, and you quickly forgave him, telling him that you believed him—"Accidents happen."

Every time it happened after that, König let you believe it was still an accident.

The more time he spent in the military earning his fearsome reputation and seeing terrible horrors, the bolder he grew. Now, when he visited you in your flat and gave you those sad puppy eyes until you let him sleep in bed with you rather than on the couch, he did not merely cup your breast at night. He played with your nipples, rolling the sensitive little buds between his fingers, tugging and pinching and delighting in the sleepy sounds of pleasure you let out. You tended to wake up if he got his mouth on them though, so he restrained himself—at least until he was able to get you drunk. You slept like dead when you were wasted, and he had free reign over your amazing tits. He squeezed and sucked, kissed and licked, even fucked them, once. He’d been a little drunk too, that night, or he wouldn't have risked it—but seeing his massive cock nestled between your breasts was like a revelation. He found God in the warm embrace of your tits, and he made an offering in the form of his seed, spilling it all over your chest, neck, and lips.

It felt blasphemous to clean his come from your skin, like he was desecrating a sacred altar, but he knew you would hate him if you discovered what he’d done. And he couldn’t have that—he loved you, he always had and always would. You and your heavenly breasts.

War, Royalty, and The conqueror PT1

poly 141 x reader (no gender)

Summary:

Your kingdom has been invaded by the neighboring kingdom ruled by the conqueror King John Price. The king had swayed many different people to his side: a disgraced assassin who tried to murder him, a runaway mage prince of the southern kingdoms, and a barbarian who was exiled from his clan. You, along with your parents, are being brought before the king in shackles. Your future is uncertain, but it seems your parents have ulterior motives they intend to use to keep their nobility and their status in court even if that means living under a conqueror. A reader x 141 fantasy AU fanfic. 

Chapter 1: I am an heir not livestock.

WARNING CONTAINS MENTION OF WAR AND SLAVERY

Cold metal surrounds my ankles and wrists, biting into my skin, but the cold metal does little to quell the burning hot anger growing in my gut. These assholes invade our country with no warning, no reason; they didn't grant us the mercy of being able to fight back, and as I'm dragged alongside my father and mother into the throne room of the most feared man in the entire continent, I can't help but know that this could be the end of my life, my family's life, and our legacy. 

The large wooden doors of the throne room open, bringing us inside. I turn my head to see my father straining against the guard who held his arm tautly. The guard, who was tightly gripping my arm, was uncaring about my worries for my parents even as my father received a painful punch to the jaw because of his noncompliance. 

I could feel myself flinch and shiver at the violence; it was simply barbaric! The discard of thousands of years of tradition for what? Some sick conquest? My thoughts were not allowed to be voiced as my parents and I were thrown to the cold marble floor of the throne room.

I grunt at the impact, my shoulder aching in protest. I twist my head to see my parents in a similar position in front of me; my heart aches in my chest at the sight of my parents, my mentors, the ones I care about more than anything, being thrown around carelessly like toys. 

The sight made me rage internally; I know that in my current position anything that I do would just dig our graves deeper.

My mother glances behind her back, giving me a small, apologetic, wary smile that I return in kind. We might not live to see the day that these bastards die, but at least we'll die together as a family. 

“That's quite enough, thank you gentlemen.” The rough voice echoes through the vast throne room, and my head swivels towards the deep timbre of his voice.

My eyes catch the bright gleam of the twisting metal dancing around the regal throne; my teeth grit together as I meet eyes with the person sitting atop the lavish throne. 

King John fucking Price, former grand duke now king, was laid back, relaxing against the throne despite the sharp points protruding from the throne.

The rage kept bubbling in my chest. I looked to my parents, trying to offer them some semblance of comfort. We have lost, and we all know it. 

I keep my head up, daring him to look away. I may have lost my home, and I will likely lose more, but I will not lose my dignity to this tyrant. Movement in the corner of my eyes directs my attention away from the king; it was my parents. 

They were bowing their heads submissively, kneeling on the floor…

“Your majesty, please have mercy on us; we were fools; please spare us!” My father pleads with his head pressed against the floor; I watch the scene unfold with eyes wide; this wasn't real.

There had to be some manipulation, some trick committed by the king prince’s mage, to manipulate me into submission.

My eyes darted towards the mage standing arms crossed next to the king's throne.

The mage's deep brown skin complements the golden robes draped around his shoulders, the flowing fabric pulling taut around his waist by the golden belt. His hands were firmly clasped together, hidden under the flowy sleeves covering his slender arms.

There was no possible way this was an illusion. But why? I turn my head back towards my parents, my eyebrows creasing in confusion; my words catch in my throat as my father continues to plead.

“Your majesty, please have mercy, grant us mercy, allow us to keep living under your rule; we offer our heir up to you as a show of goodwill; please, your majesty, have mercy.” 

I pause my body stilling. I did not dare to breathe as I looked at my father in shock.

He was offering me up.

Selling me.

I felt my heart swim as I watched, paralyzed, as the price rose on the regal eyebrow. “Oh? And what use would your heir possibly give me?” he questions, leaning forward, resting his head on his fist.

I watch as my father stutters, fumbling for a response before sputtering a response, “Pleasure! Y-you can use them as you please, your grace! Just have mercy on me and my wife. I beg of you!” My father's words echo throughout the throne room. 

My knees are shaking; bile rises in my throat. I feel sick.

Tears well up in my eyes. I could feel my legs trembling, the world blurred around me, my breath caught in my throat.

I couldn't cry, not here, not in front of my parents…who just sold me off like livestock. I can't cry, not here. 

‘Don’t fucking cry.’ I scowl silently to myself, but the growing pain is tightening in my chest. I can't contain it, my pain, my anger, my hurt. 

A stray tear slips down my cheek, dropping down onto my worn tunic. 

“It seems your heir is quite unhappy with your proposal.” A curt, deep timber voice interrupted my thoughts, and my head snapped up, my eyes scanning for the source of the voice.

My eyes land on a shadowed figure leaning against one of the tall marble pillars that lined the outer walls of the throne room. 

The figure steps forward, and I feel my heart drop deeper into my stomach; the chalky white of a skull reflects the golden light streaming in from the large windows.

The man stepped further forward into the light, a silence of the room being broken by the thudding of boots against the marble floor as the man stepped towards the dais, the light glinting on the surfaces of the dark metal armor that encircled the man's silhouette.

He rose the dais before standing on the other side of the throne.

My heart jolted in my chest. This was no ordinary man; this was the unlikely general.

Rumors had spun that King Price had an assassination attempt sent out after him, but the assassin was captured, and instead of interrogation or execution, King Price spread the assassin and made the assassin a general in his army.

That means that this man was none other than a ghost. The man with no face. 

A deep hum rumbles from Price's throat as he considers the ghost’s words. Before speaking, the guards lining the walls of the throne room stand at attention.

“Take them to the guest wing.” Price commands after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. 

A pair of guards step towards me, their hands wrapping around my biceps as they tug me towards the door. My feet fumble beneath me, but I quickly regain my footing and begin walking. 

The two guards lead me out of the throne room down winding hallways. My hands were still restrained by the cold metal shackles as well as my ankles, every step I took making them click together. 

My mind is swirling. I was barely focused on where the guards were taking me; I'm still reeling from what my father said…

He was going to use me as a bargaining chip. His own flesh and blood. The disbelief swells up inside me.

‘No, that can't be it. Perhaps my parents think that they can regain our kingdom's freedom by doing this? That had to be it; they had to have a plan. That must be it; they're using this as an opportunity to tear down the conqueror. But…that was against the universal laws of warfare!

Why would my parents possibly do this?’ I think to myself, barely noticing the glances and stares that I'm given as servants pass by, but something catches my attention.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a large window looking out onto a vast garden decorated with many wildflowers and a grand oak tree in the middle, but what caught my attention the most was the man lying beneath the tree, a book laid across his chest as he lay…sleeping? 

The man was wearing loose pants and a leather tunic, but what was most striking about him was his hair, which was slightly bound down the middle of his scalp, the sides of his head shaven down to a light fuzz, beads intertwined into the tightly matted mohawk that split down the man's head.

The guards led me past the window towards a large set of doors where another set of guards stood at attention, ignorant of the entrance. They sidestepped hands clasping around the door handles and prying it open; before I knew it, I was being shoved forward.

I barely had the time to get my bearings before the doors slammed shut behind me. I blinked, and once again tears began to form in my eyes, reality crashing down on me harshly and swiftly. 

A sob catches itself in my throat. I was trapped. Alone in an enemy castle of the man that my parents just sold me to for…pleasure. 

A sickening feeling twists in my gut as the gates finally release themselves, and I let myself cry, my body wracked with sobs as I clutch at my arms, pulling myself into a hug as I lay on the cold wooden floor.

“How in God's name will I survive this?” I ask myself aloud as if the answer would be given to me on a silver platter. The room remains silent save for my small sniffles and choked sobs.

Before I knew it, my eyes grew heavy, and I fell into a slumber I wished I didn't wake from. 

this isn’t a request but you’re the only writer i know who writes the monster!au so

dragon!reader and dragon!price are haunting my thoughts. dragons usually have to hold themselves back when sparring because they’re so much stronger than other monsters but with price & reader they don’t need to, to the point where the other members of the 141 are kinda wondering if they need to intervene.

what they do or don’t know is this is you and price courting, testing each other’s strength to assess whether you’re suitable mates. once you have decided you’re suitable it continues in the bedroom, fighting for dominance and testing each other’s stamina as price rides you or you pin price down and see if he can take all the strength behind your thrusts.

OH god I LOVE the way you think! I know @rodolfoparras also did a dragon price some time ago but I'm happy to let my monsterfucker out lol :D I'll consider this a spitball thingy but GOD DAMN did my hyperfixation hyperfixate on this :Ddd kinda rushed at the end but it's 3AM :/

CW:NSFW

What about if dragons measure not just raw strength, but all other aspects as well? They're prideful by nature and with so little of them remaining no self-respecting dragon will settle for a witless brute or a powerless scribe.

Price had lost hope in finding a mate centuries ago because he's even pickier than most of his kin; in his view, a proper one needs to be strong enough to completely pin him down, needs to be smart enough to see the insults in his honeyed words and give back as good as he does, needs to be clever enough to lead men as good as he does.

A proper mate needs to keep up with him on all levels.

And for a dragon of his age, that's an unachievable set of criteria. Oh sure, many of the dragons he's met over the years have tried to match him, but all fell short, leaving him lonely and unsatisfied.

Then he met you, a fellow Captain, a fellow dragon. Though only a few centuries younger than him, you're a wyrmling in his eyes, your scales like shining metal compared to his muddled gemstones. An arrogant wyrmling if the way you peacock for him the first time you enter the training room has anything to say about it— your wings spreading out and muscles rippling, back straightening out to make you taller, scales glinting in the artificial light; little details that anyone else can brush off as a simple stretch but to a dragon it screams of your interest in him.

His slitted eyes roam across your body, both equal parts disdain and curiosity. "Got somethin' ta say there boy?" His words are rough like sandpaper.

"No, no." You hum as you get into the ring, every little movement purposely done to showcase your hard earned musculature. "Just that you should skip out on this fight. Wouldn't want you to throw your back out old man."

"Old man huh?" His eyes blaze with the same fire at the end of his cigar, your words igniting something in his chest that had long been extinguished. "I'll show you old."

And suddenly he's in the ring, both of you trading blow for blow with the same savagery your progenitors had frightened mankind with for millennia, your claws leaving deep grooves in the concrete when you miss his side, his tail smashing a portion of the ground into dust when you avoid it, the ground between you cracking when you try to push the other away, loose scales and dust and debris littering the ground as you and Price wrestle on the ground.

Both of your teams watch from the sidelines, your team calming the other members of TF141 that this is just how dragons are, pointedly ignoring your victorious snarl when you pin Price down to the ground, your clawed hand harshly pushing his face into the concrete to the point you might break his nose as you bite the back of his neck, forcing him to submit. "I win,"

"Not fer long." He snarls back just as deep, feeling alive for the first time in who knows how long. "Best two out of three." And with that he jerks, remaining wing slamming into your side and knocking you off balance long enough for him to fling you into the wall opposite of him.

You don't know how many rounds you go before you're forced to stop by a very pissed off Laswell, who also pointedly ignores the obvious bulges in what remains of both of your pants, giving both of you a stern talking to about wrecking the damn training room.

You're ready to leave after being chastised like a child but Price is quicker, passing you with a "Good fight back there." rumbling in his throat, the soft scales of his wing brushing along your jaw. Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull when you meet his gaze, and Price has a good poker face but the smoldering look in his eyes and the low grumble in his chest makes it's obvious you've peaked his curiosity.

But that's just the start, the hard part is keeping it. While regular dragons may spend time with a potential mate conversing on scholarly subjects or having philosophical debates, you and him have a more practical way of assessing the other's intellect — Battle plans.

To your teams it sounds like a harsh argument, ideas thrown around and sharp insults tacked on top, their heads ping ponging between you and Price as you look over maps, trying to one up the other. Eventually your teammates leave you to settle this on your own.

"And I'm telling you, old man," You growl, both of you so close there's barely any space between you as you point at the map. "We can push a smaller team through the forest while we lead the frontal assault, our wip's not going to have anywhere to go then." You huff, holding your head up high to make it obvious you're proud of your idea.

Price gives you the stink eye, before he scans the map again, humming to himself. After a few seconds he lets out a scoff. "We don't have enough men for that." He says, but the sharp edge in his tone is dulled. "But—" His tail moves to brush against your own, your rough scales brushing against his smoother ones. "—It has some merit."

Price doesn't draw attention to the way your tails intertwine, wrapping together like two snakes, and neither do you. But the short purr that bubbles out of your chest says everything he needs to know, growing louder when he answers with his own, your shoulders brushing together. "Aight, back to work." He cuts your purrs short, but you can't hide the pleased look on your face as your tails remain coiled together.

Then comes the actual courting dance.

One late evening spent looking over documents in the privacy of his office, your tails once again coiled beneath the desk after successfully having proved your wit to him again, absentmindedly telling embarrassing stories of your respective teams. . . Price has a revelation. You might be it. "Hey lad."

You look up, your full attention on him. "Yeah?"

With a mumbled grunt too quiet for you to hear Price slides a hand beneath his shirt and pulls a large green scale from the meat of his shoulder blade, the wound healing before it can even bleed.

Instinctively you know what this means, for knowing how a prospective mate treats an extension of you will show how they'll treat you. But you still speak up, needing proof for your own mind that you're not insane and haven't been burning the wrong tree. "What?"

Price glares at you, "Don't play dumb," He says as he slides the large scale across the table to you. "It doesn't suit you." There's an underlayer of heat in his words, blue slitted eyes looking you over in a much more appreciative light.

You can't control the big grin that spreads across your face, "Oh, then what does suit me?" You ask as you follow his lead, yanking out one of your larger scales from your own back and sliding it to him. It makes the difference between you two obvious, his green scale muddled with age compared to your shiny one.

"Arrogant muppet." The gentle way he picks up your scale clashes with his harsh words, cradling it in his hand like it'll crack at the slightest of touches, his face reflected in the surface.

You grin, "Just confident." You feel his sharp eyes judge every minute twitch of your fingers as you pick up his scale. Price's poker face hides the way his heart melts at the loving way you brush a thumb across the surface, how it throbs when you don't immediately attempt to make it shine like some whelps once did, accepting him for how he is by putting it in your breast pocket.

God, he doesn't even know how much he'd fantasized about something like this when he was still young, vestiges of a purr escaping his throat at the tender way you treat his scale. "Right." He shakes his head and places your scale in his own breast pocket, handing you another stack of papers. "Get back to work."

You grin and do as he says, wings twitching as a sign of joy, your tail squeezing down on his and receiving a squeeze in kind.

Price feels like a horny teen when he lays awake in bed late at night with your scale held between his claws. He feels stupid for feeling so giddy at the thought of having a mate, a proper mate, yet his body thinks differently. Just holding it in his hand is enough to make him grow hot, your scent still clings to the scale and Price finds himself holding it close to his nose to familiarize himself with it and Hell his body loves it, cocks growing hard in record time and his thighs wet with slick. The poor thing doesn't even know what to relieve first, his free hand constantly going between stroking his cocks and fingering himself, mind craving the heat of another dragon that he'd been deprived of.

What Price doesn't know is that you're in the same boat, biting your arm to silence yourself as you imagine it's Price you're breeding instead of a pillow, splintering the headboard from how hard you're gripping it in an attempt to not damage the scale.

Then shit hits the fan when during a routine mission you two are ambushed, and while two dragons are no easy prey for mankind, humans have long since gone from using rocks and sticks. You catch sight of a sniper's scope glint seconds before the bullet targets Price, and in only a few seconds to think you throw yourself in the way, Price's scale in your breast pocket puts enough resistance to make you survive the bullet, but you feel it crack, and that. . . that sets you off.

Price doesn't even have the time to lift his gun before you're tearing through the battlefield like a man possessed, anger burning like a volcano in your chest for trying to hurt him, elemental breath and draconic strength unleashed to it's fullest potential.

And Price? Price watches the show with that same heat burning in his belly, forced to bite his lip to silence the pleased purrs as he rubs his thighs together while you tear flesh from bone, mate flashing in his mind. Look how he protects you His mind purrs, Good mate. Perfect mate.

"I'm sorry." You whimper when you've finally calmed down, the battlefield nothing but a ruined crater and the shards of his scale held tenderly in your cupped hands. "I failed, I-"

"Come here." Price cuts you off quickly and pulls you down into a harsh and desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue and need. He parts just a fraction of an inch, "You passed." He growls and only then do you notice the sharp arousal in his scent, your animalistic hindbrain jumping for joy as you kiss back because holy shit he considers you worthy.

And now that he's found his mate? You best believe his body is going to make up for all the centuries he'd spent alone.

It doesn't even take a week for him to enter heat, waking in a daze with his twin cocks hard and his thighs glistening with slick, your scent lingering in the sheets and your side of the bed still warm. The walls almost shake from how deeply he growls when he registers that you're not next to him, just enough sense in his head to throw on a towel around his waist before angerly stomping through the halls to find you, sniffing you out like a bloodhoud.

"Bloody muppet." Price growls as he yanks you by the horns back to his room, the scent of his arousal so potent you're struck dumb, letting yourself be pushed down. Price's claws slice through your clothes, his hole so slick and eager for you he doesn't even need to stretch, just jumps onto your lap and in one fluid motion takes one of your cocks to the root. "Fuckin' finally." Price hisses, instantly setting a harsh pace of bouncing on your cock that would have had a lesser race end up with a crushed pelvis.

You grip his hips for dear life, surging up to mark his neck and shoulders with bites as he does the same, his ass clapping against your thighs. "Mate." Price moans, hole clenching around you, his cocks leaking against your stomach. "My mate." He grips your hair and pulls you into a bruising kiss, "Going to last long for me yeah?" He asks, a bit of mockery on his flushed face as he feels you cum inside him, riding you through your orgasm as the sudden onslaught of sensations frazzles the intelligent parts of your brain. "Not going to disappoint me now are you?"

Good thing dragons have really short refractory periods.

"Not a chance." You snarl and flip him over suddenly, rumbling purrs escaping your chest from the surprised sound he makes. You attempt to pin him down and he squirms out of your hold, another bout of wrestling breaking out between you that has you two tumbling off the bed and onto the ground.

"That so whelp?" Price breathes out when you manage to pin him down, your strong hand keeping his face flush with the floor. "Do you really think you can keep up?" A pleased thrill runs down his spine from the sensation of your weight bearing down on him, his knees automatically locking up to hike his ass up, tail flipping up to display his slick hole for you.

"Do you?" You counter, one hand on his head, the other pressing both of your dicks together, your two tips pressing against his ass. "You're so wet and desperate, should have just pinned you down the moment I saw you instead of courting you." With one sharp thrust you push in, a pained and elated moan tearing out of his throat at the sensation of your twin cocks spreading him wider than any toy ever could, scratching that itch he'd had for who knows how long.

The stretch and burn and pleasure muddles his mind, reduces him to low animalistic snarls and growls as he does his best to push his hips into yours. "Hurry the fuck up." Price orders, whole body shaking from the way you set a harsh pace, bashing on his prostate, your balls slapping against his own, each hard thrust pushing and pulling his face across the floor. "I'll- fuck- fall asleep."

"You sure about that?" You push your weight further on him, forcing his wing to spread out, your own partially wrapping around him, "Seems to me like-" A bit of elemental breath leaves your throat when one particularly strong thrust has his hole clamping down on you, his back arching to push his hips as close to yours as one of his cocks spews cum on the floor, "-like you're not in a place to order me around."

"You- ah-fuck-ah- wanker." His insult would be a lot more hurtful if he didn't whine like a bitch in heat, both of you devolving into primitive snarls and growls with the only thought on both of your minds being the need to fill Price with as much of your cum as you physically can.